Chapter Twelve
I
“So you’ve turned up again like a bad penny,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
Lance grinned at her. “Just as you say, Aunt Effie.”
nice time to do it. Your father got himself murdered yesterday, the house
is full of police
poking4 about everywhere, grubbing in the dustbins, even.
I’ve seen them out of the window.” She paused, sniffed again, and asked:
“Got your wife with you?”
“No. I left Pat in London.”
“That shows some sense. I shouldn’t bring her here if I were you. You
never know what might happen.”
“To her? To Pat?”
“To anybody,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
Lance Fortescue looked at her thoughtfully.
“Got any ideas about it all, Aunt Effie?” he asked.
Miss Ramsbottom did not reply directly. “I had an
inspector5 here yester-
day asking me questions. He didn’t get much change out of me. But he
wasn’t such a fool as he looked, not by a long way.” She added with some
indignation: “What your grandfather would feel if he knew we had the po-
lice in the house—it’s enough to make him turn in his grave. A strict Ply-
mouth Brother he was all his life. The fuss there was when he found out
I’d been attending Church of England services in the evening! And I’m
sure that was harmless enough compared to murder.”
Normally Lance would have smiled at this, but his long, dark face re-
mained serious. He said:
“D’you know, I’m quite in the dark after having been away so long.
What’s been going on here of late?”
Miss Ramsbottom raised her eyes to heaven.
“Godless doings,” she said firmly.
“Yes, yes, Aunt Effie, you would say that anyway. But what gives the po-
lice the idea that Dad was killed here, in this house?”
“Adultery is one thing and murder is another,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “I
shouldn’t like to think it of her, I shouldn’t indeed.”
Lance looked alert. “Adele?” he asked.
“My lips are sealed,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
“Come on, old dear,” said Lance. “It’s a lovely phrase, but it doesn’t
mean a thing. Adele had a boyfriend? Adele and the boyfriend fed him
henbane in the morning tea. Is that the setup?”
“I’ll trouble you not to joke about it.”
“I wasn’t really joking, you know.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Miss Ramsbottom suddenly. “I believe that
girl knows something about it.”
“Which girl?” Lance looked surprised.
“The one that sniffs,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “The one that ought to
have brought me up my tea this afternoon, but didn’t. Gone out without
leave, so they say. I shouldn’t wonder if she had gone to the police. Who
let you in?”
“Someone called Mary Dove, I understand. Very
meek6 and mild—but
not really. Is she the one who’s gone to the police?”
“She wouldn’t go to the police,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “No—I mean that
silly little parlourmaid. She’s been
twitching7 and jumping like a rabbit all
day. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I said. ‘Have you got a guilty consci-
ence?’ She said: ‘I never did anything—I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ ‘I
hope you wouldn’t,’ I said to her, ‘but there’s something worrying you
now, isn’t there?’ Then she began to
sniff2 and said she didn’t want to get
anybody into trouble, she was sure it must be all a mistake. I said to her, I
said: ‘Now, my girl, you speak the truth and shame the devil.’ That’s what I
said. ‘You go to the police,’ I said, ‘and tell them anything you know, be-
cause no good ever came,’ I said, ‘of hushing up the truth, however un-
pleasant it is.’ Then she talked a lot of nonsense about she couldn’t go to
the police, they’d never believe her and what on earth should she say? She
ended up by saying anyway she didn’t know anything at all.”
“You don’t think,” Lance hesitated, “that she was just making herself im-
portant?”
“No, I don’t. I think she was scared. I think she saw something or heard
something that’s given her some idea about the whole thing. It may be im-
portant, or it mayn’t be of the least consequence.”
“You don’t think she herself could’ve had a
grudge8 against Father and
—” Lance hesitated.
Miss Ramsbottom was shaking her head decidedly.
“She’s not the kind of girl your father would have taken the least notice
of. No man ever will take much notice of her, poor girl. Ah, well, it’s all the
better for her soul, that I dare say.”
Lance took no interest in Glady’s soul. He asked:
“You think she may have run along to the police station?”
Aunt Effie nodded vigorously.
“Yes. I think she mayn’t like to’ve said anything to them in this house in
case somebody overheard her.”
Lance asked: “Do you think she may have seen someone
tampering9 with
the food?”
Aunt Effie threw him a sharp glance.
“It’s possible, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes, I suppose so.” Then he added apologetically: “The whole thing still
seems so wildly improbable. Like a detective story.”
“Percival’s wife is a hospital nurse,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
The remark seemed so unconnected with what had gone before that
Lance looked at her in a puzzled fashion.
“Hospital nurses are used to handling drugs,” said Miss Ramsbottom.
Lance looked doubtful.
“This stuff—taxine—is it ever used in medicine?”
“They get it from yewberries, I gather. Children eat yewberries some-
times,” said Miss Ramsbottom. “Makes them very ill, too. I remember a
case when I was a child. It made a great impression on me. I never forgot
it. Things you remember come in useful sometimes.”
Lance raised his head sharply and stared at her.
“Natural affection is one thing,” said Miss Ramsbottom, “and I hope I’ve
got as much of it as anyone. But I won’t stand for wickedness. Wickedness
has to be destroyed.”
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