Laurels Are Poison

found it first.’

‘There’s one other thing. Why did Miss Cornflake stalk you in College with that revolver?’

‘Oh, but she didn’t. She really did carry it in self-defence. That seems quite certain now. I’ve visited her several times since she’s been in the Infirmary, and, as soon as I was sure of my ground, I told her that as Miss Murchan had undoubtedly killed Cook, that was sufficient to put her within reach of the law. I suggested that although there was no evidence beyond Miss Cornflake’s unsupported word that the child’s death had been anything other than accident, there was plenty of evidence to show that Cook had been murdered, and I said I was prepared to act on it. Of course, the one thing I did not foresee was that the plucky, idiotic Laura Menzies would lay her out.’

‘And you call yourself a psychologist!’ said Deborah.

‘But what is all this about the Cornflake and Miss Murchan?’ asked Jonathan. ‘I know they were half-sisters, and I know Miss Murchan killed the child, but why should the two of them lay for one another?’

‘Well, the thing began as a love story,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘You see, the child happened to be Miss Cornflake’s own… That much I deduced from a conversation I had with old Mrs Princep, the grandmother. The half-sisters, Miss Murchan and Miss Cornflake — oh, yes, that made the bad blood between them, the fact that they were related through their mother — both loved the same man. What happened to him I don’t know. I only know that although — whether by accident or design — he married neither of them, Miss Cornflake, or, as I suppose we ought to say, Miss Paynter-Tree, had the child and Miss Murchan envied her, and killed the child in spite, after years of, bitter brooding. Miss Paynter-Tree saw it done, from the gymnasium gallery at the School. The mother told me they watched one another like cats, and the headmistress agreed that a person passing quietly along the gallery could see what was happening below.

‘At first Miss Paynter-Tree thought that the verdict at the inquest was the truth. Her half-sister, by writing that anonymous letter to the police, showed her the truth, that the child had been killed deliberately. Half the beauty of the revenge would have been lost, you see, had Miss Paynter-Tree continued to believe that the death was accidental.

‘Miss Murchan was not safe from her half-sister’s vengeance once the truth was disclosed. She hid from her very successfully at Cartaret for a couple of years, but Miss Paynter-Tree found her at last, and she knew her number was up unless she could disappear.

‘Together with the idea of the disappearance came the thought of how much safer she would be if Miss Paynter-Tree were dead. Then she saw me as an enemy. She didn’t want to be found, and she was terribly afraid that I should find her, especially as we were living in the same house!

‘Of course, this Athelstan building lends itself admirably to hide-and-seek, what with its communal passage with other Halls and its back and front staircases. I could have caught her, I expect, at the end-of-term dance last term, but I wasn’t ready with my proofs. Hence our performance tonight

‘She quoted Hylus before she died.’

‘Sure proof she wasn’t really an English specialist,’ said Deborah sleepily, ‘or she’d have known that she’d got the story backwards.’

‘No she was really a scientist,’ Mrs Bradley agreed. ‘That’s how she was able to articulate the bones of poor Maggie Dalton. She was powerful, too. I suppose she and Miss Paynter-Tree inherited their physique from the mother.

‘That’s another interesting thing. A woman who marries three times is almost bound to be either super-normal, abnormal, or sub-normal…’

‘Same like you!’ said Jonathan. He picked up Deborah and carried her off to bed.

‘Don’t go over the threshold. It isn’t lucky,’ said his aunt.

‘Always the gentleman,’ he replied. He passed on, up the front staircase, on which the lights were still burning, to encounter, on the first-floor landing, the wide gaze of Laura Menzies. He had forgotten that the students were still about.

‘Oh, lor!’ said Miss Menzies, ‘young Lochinvar in person.’

‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘Shove open that door for me, would you? And don’t bellow, there’s an angel. The baby appears to be asleep.’

‘Bit of luck for me. She’d hate me for ever if she thought I’d seen you carrying her like this. When are you going to be married?’ Laura inquired.

‘Don’t know exactly. Let you know in plenty of time. Meanwhile — I suppose she’ll wake the minute I put her down —

‘For whilst our brows ambitious be,

And youth at hand awaits us,

It is a pretty thing to see

How finely beauty cheats us;

And whilst with time we trifling stand

To practise antique graces,

Age with a pale and withered hand

Draws furrows in our faces.” ’

‘You shall write it in my album,’ said Laura, grinning.

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[scanned anonymously in a galaxy far far away]

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