'Please don't be grateful,' said Joanna, 'it will embarrass me. You're our friend and we're glad to have you here. That's all there is to it… '
She took Megan upstairs to unpack.
Partridge came in, looking sour, and said she had made two cup custards for lunch and what should she do about it?
The inquest was held three days later.
The time of Mrs. Symmington's death was put at between three and four o'clock. She was alone in the house, Symmington was at his office, the maids were having their day out, Elsie Holland and the children were out walking and Megan had gone for a bicycle ride.
The letter must have come by the afternoon post. Mrs. Symmington must have taken it out of the box, read it – and then in a state of agitation she had gone to the potting shed, fetched some of the cyanide kept there for taking wasps' nests, dissolved it in water and drunk it after writing those last agitated words, 'I can't go on…'
Owen Griffith gave medical evidence and stressed the view he had outlined to us of Mrs. Symmington's nervous condition and poor stamina. The coroner was suave and discreet.
He spoke with bitter condemnation of people who write those despicable things, anonymous letters. Whoever had written that wicked and lying letter was morally guilty of murder, he said. He hoped the police would soon discover the culprit and take action against him or her. Such a dastardly and malicious piece of spite deserved to be punished with the utmost rigour of the law. Directed by him, the jury brought in the inevitable verdict: Suicide while temporarily insane.
The coroner had done his best – Owen Griffith also, but afterward, jammed in the crowd of eager village women, I heard the same hateful sibilant whisper I had begun to know so well:
'No smoke without fire, that's what I say!… Must 'a been something in it for certain sure. She wouldn't never have done it otherwise… '
Just for a moment I hated Lymstock and its narrow boundaries, and its gossipping whispering women.
Outside, Aimee Griffith said with a sigh:
'Well, that's over. Bad luck on Dick Symmington, its all having to come out. I wonder whether he'd ever had any suspicion.'
I was startled.
'But surely you heard him say most emphatically that there wasn't a word of truth in that lying letter?'
'Of course he said so. Quite right. A man's got to stick up for his wife. Dick would.' She paused and then explained:
'You see, I've known Dick Symmington a long time.'
'Really?' I said surprised. 'I understood from your brother that he only bought this practice a few years ago.'
'Yes, but Dick Symmington used to come and stay in our part of the world up north. I've known him for years.'
I looked at Aimee curiously. She went on, still in that softened tone, 'I know Dick very well… He's a proud man and very reserved. But he's the sort of man who could be very jealous.'
'That would explain,' I said deliberately, 'why Mrs. Symmington was afraid to show him or tell him about the letter. She was afraid that, being a jealous man, he might not believe her denials.'
Miss Griffith looked at me angrily and scornfully. 'Good Lord,' she said. 'Do you think any woman would go and swallow a lot of cyanide of potassium for an accusation that wasn't true?'
'The coroner seemed to think it was possible. Your brother, too -'
Aimee interrupted me:
'Men are all alike. All for preserving the decencies. But you don't catch me believing that stuff. If an innocent woman gets some foul anonymous letter, she laughs and chucks it away. That's what I -' she paused suddenly, and then finished – 'would do.'
But I had noticed the pause. I was almost sure that what she had been about to say was, 'That's what I did.'
I decided to take the war into the enemy's country.
'I see,' I said pleasantly. 'So you've had one, too?'
Aimee Griffith was the type of woman who scorns to lie.
She paused a minute – flushed, then said, 'Well, yes. But I didn't let it worry me!'
'Nasty?' I inquired sympathetically, as a fellow sufferer.
'Naturally. These things always are. The ravings of a lunatic! I read a few words of it, realized what it was and chucked it straight into the wastepaper basket.'
'You didn't think of taking it to the police?'
'Not then. Least said soonest mended – that's what I felt.'
An urge came over me to say solemnly, 'No smoke without fire!' but I restrained myself.
I asked her if she had any idea how her mother's death would affect Megan financially. Would it be necessary for the girl to earn her own living?
'I believe she has a small income left her by her grandmother and of course Dick would always give her a home. But it would be much better for her to do something – not just slack about the way she does.'
'I should have said Megan is at the age when a girl wants to enjoy herself – not to work.'
Aimee flushed and said sharply, 'You're like all men – you dislike the idea of women competing. It is incredible to you that women should want a career. It was incredible to my parents. I was anxious to study for a doctor. They would not hear of paying the fees. But they paid them readily for Owen. Yet I should have made a better doctor than my brother.'
'I'm sorry about that,' I said. 'It was tough on you. If one wants to do a thing -'
She went on quickly.
'Oh, I've got over it now. I've plenty of willpower. My life is busy and active. I'm one of the happiest people in Lymstock. Plenty to do. But I go up in arms against the silly old-fashioned prejudice that woman's place is always the home.'
'I'm sorry if I offended you,' I said. I had had no idea that Aimee Griffith could be so vehement.
Chapter 3
I met Symmington in the town later in the day.
'Is it quite all right for Megan to stay on with us for a bit?' I asked. 'It's company for Joanna – she's rather lonely sometimes with none of her own friends.'
'Oh – er – Megan? Oh, yes, very good of you.'
I took a dislike to Symmington then which I never quite overcame. He had so obviously forgotten all about Megan. I wouldn't have minded if he had actively disliked the girl – a man may sometimes be jealous of a first husband's child – but he didn't dislike her, he just hardly noticed her. He felt toward her much as a man who doesn't care much for dogs would feel about a dog in the house. You notice it when you fall over it and swear at it, and you give it a vague pat sometimes when it presents itself to be patted. Symmington's complete indifference to his stepdaughter annoyed me very much.
I said, 'What are you planning to do with her?'
'With Megan?' He seemed rather startled. 'Well, she'll go on living at home. I mean, naturally, it is her home.'
My grandmother, of whom I had been very fond, used to sing old-fashioned songs to her guitar. One of them, I remember, ended thus:
'Oh, maid most dear, I am not here,
I have no place, no part,
No dwelling more, by sea nor shore,
But only in your heart.'
I went home humming it.
