“I daresay.”

“Well, I thought I’d just tell you.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll let you know what Mr. Rats thinks.”

“Thanks.”

“Goodbye then, Godma darling.”

“Goodbye, darling. I’m sorry. Especially,” Verity managed, “about the Swingletree bit.”

“I know. Bruce is chicken feed, compared,” said Prunella. “And what a name!” she added. “Lady Swingletree! I ask you!” and hung up.

It was exactly a week after this conversation and in the morning of just such another halcyon day that Verity answered her front door-bell to find a very tall man standing in the porch.

He took off his hat. “Miss Preston?” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m a police officer. My name is Alleyn.”

ii

Afterward, when he had gone away, Verity thought it strange that her first reaction had not been one of alarm. At the moment of encounter she had simply been struck by Alleyn himself: by his voice, his thin face and — there was only one word she could find — his distinction. There was a brief feeling of incredulity and then the thought that he might be on the track of Charmless Claude. He sat there in her drawing-room with his knees crossed, his thin hands clasped together and his eyes, which were bright, directed upon her. It came as a shock when he said: “It’s about the late Mrs. Foster that I hoped to have a word with you.”

Verity heard herself say: “Is there something wrong?”

“It’s more a matter of making sure there isn’t,” he said. “This is a routine visit and I know that’s what we’re always supposed to say.”

“Is it because something’s turned up at the — examination: the — I can’t remember the proper word.”

“Autopsy?”

“Yes. Stupid of me.”

“You might say it’s arisen out of that, yes. Things have turned out a bit more complicated than was expected.”

After a pause, Verity said: “I’m sure one’s not meant to ask questions, is one?”

“Well,” he said, and smiled at her, “I can always evade answering but the form is supposed to be for me to ask.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not a bit. You shall ask me anything you like as the need arises. In the meantime shall I go ahead?”

“Please.”

“My first one is about Mrs. Foster’s room.”

“At Greengages?”

“Yes.”

“I was never in it.”

“Do you know if she habitually used a sort of glass sleeve contraption filled with scented oil that fitted over a lamp bulb?”

“ ‘Oasis’? Yes, she used it in the drawing-room at Quintern and sometimes, I think, in her bedroom. She adored what she called a really groovy smell.”

“ ‘Oasis,’ if that’s what it was, is all of that. They tell me the memory lingers on in the window curtains. Did she usually have a nightcap, do you know? Scotch?”

“I think she did, occasionally, but she wasn’t much of a drinker. Far from it.”

“Miss Preston, I’ve seen the notes of your evidence at the inquest but if you don’t mind I’d like to go back to the talk you had with Mrs. Foster on the lawn that afternoon. It’s simply to find out if by any chance, and on consideration, hindsight if you like, something was said that now seems to suggest she contemplated suicide.”

“Nothing. I’ve thought and thought. Nothing.” And as she said this Verity realized that with all her heart she wished there had been something and at the same time told herself how appalling it was that she could desire it. “I shall never get myself sorted out over this,” she thought and became aware that Alleyn was speaking to her.

“If you could just run over the things you talked about. Never mind if they seem irrelevant or trivial.”

“Well, she gossiped about the hotel. She talked a lot about — the doctor — and the wonders of his cure and about the nurse — Sister something — who she said resented her being a favourite. But most of all we talked about Prunella — her daughter’s — engagement.”

“Didn’t she fancy the young man?”

“Well — she was upset,” Verity said. “But — well, she was often upset. I suppose it would be fair to say she was inclined to get into tizzies at the drop of a hat.”

“A fuss-pot?”

“Yes.”

“Spoilt, would you say?” he asked, surprisingly.

“Rather indulged, perhaps.”

“Keen on the chaps?”

He put this to her so quaintly that Verity was startled into saying: “You are sharp!”

“A happy guess, I promise you,” said Alleyn.

“You must have heard about the Will,” she exclaimed.

“Who’s being sharp now?”

“I don’t know,” Verity said crossly, “why I’m laughing.”

“When, really, you’re very worried, aren’t you? Why?”

“I don’t know. Not really. It’s all so muddling,” she broke out. “And I hate being muddled.”

She stared helplessly at Alleyn. He nodded and gave a small affirmative sound.

“You see,” Verity began again, “when you asked if she said anything that suggested suicide I said ‘nothing,’ didn’t I? And if you’d known Syb as well as I did, there was nothing. But if you ask me whether she’s ever suggested anything of the sort — well, yes. If you count her being in a bit of a stink over some dust-up and throwing a temperament and saying life wasn’t worth living and she might as well end it all. But that was just histrionics. I often thought Syb’s true métier was the theatre.”

“Well,” said Alleyn, “you ought to know.”

“Have you seen Prunella? Her daughter?” Verity asked.

“Not yet. I’ve read her evidence. I’m on my way there. Is she at home, do you know?”

“She has been, lately. She goes up to London quite a lot.”

“Who’ll be there if she’s out?”

“Mrs. Jim Jobbin. General factotum. It’s her morning at Quintern.

“Anyone else?”

“Damn!” thought Verity, “here we go.” She said: “I haven’t been in touch. Oh, it’s the gardener’s day up there.”

“Ah yes. The gardener.”

“Then you do know about the Will?”

“Mr. Rattisbon told me about it. He’s an old acquaintance of mine. May we go back to the afternoon in question? Did you discuss Miss Foster’s engagement with her mother?”

“Yes. I tried to reconcile her to the idea.”

“Any success?”

“Not much. But she did agree to see them. Is it all right to ask — did they find — did the pathologist find — any signs of a disease?”

“He thinks, as Dr. Field-Innis did, that she might have had Parkinson’s disease.”

“If she had known that,” Verity said, “it might have made a difference. If she was told — but Dr. Field-Innis didn’t tell her.”

“And Dr. Schramm apparently didn’t spot it”

Sooner or later it had to come. They’d arrived at his name.

“Have you met Dr. Schramm?” Alleyn asked casually.

“Yes.”

“Know him well?”

“No. I used to know him many years ago but we had entirely lost touch.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

“I’ve only met him once at a dinner-party some months ago. At Mardling: Mardling Manor belonging to Mr. Nikolas Markos. It’s his son who’s engaged to Prunella.”

“The millionaire Markos, would that be?”

“Not that I know. He certainly seems to be extremely affluent.”

“The millionaire who buys pictures,” said Alleyn, “if that’s any guide.”

“This one does that. He’d bought a Troy.”

“That’s the man,” said Alleyn. “She called it Several Pleasures.”

“But — how did you—? Oh, I see,” said Verity, “you’ve been to Mardling.”

“No. The painter is my wife.”

“Curiouser,” said Verity, after a long pause, “and curiouser.”

“Do you find it so? I don’t quite see why.”

“I should have said, how lovely. To be married to Troy.”

“Well, we like it,” said Troy’s husband. “Could I get back to the matter in hand, do you think?”

“Of course. Please,” said Verity with a jolt of nausea under her diaphragm.

“Where were we?”

“You asked me if I’d met Basil Smythe.”

“Smythe?”

“I should have said Schramm,” Verity amended quickly. “I believe Schramm was his mother’s maiden name. I think she wanted him to take it. He said something to that effect.”