Death of a Mystery Writer (10 page)

“Nine months?” said Bella.

“Yes. Now, there are some preliminary small bequests. Two hundred and fifty pounds to Barbara Cozzens, I quote, ‘my secretary of several years' standing, to compensate her for the exquisite and prolonged boredom of transcribing my literary works.' Very characteristic touch, that! Delightful sense of humor!”

Mr. Widdicomb glanced over his spectacles at Oliver Fairleigh's family, and decided they did not show the same appreciation of the dead man's humor as he professed himself. He blinked, and dropped his eyes back to the will.

“‘To John Surtees, the sum of five hundred pounds, for faithful service'—very generous and proper. Sir Oliver, if I may say so, was a man who always knew the right thing to do.” Mr. Widdicomb appended to himself the addendum “even if he did not always do it,” for he had been the victim of several bouts of Oliver Fairleigh's persecution over the years. “Now, ‘To my dear wife Eleanor, who has her own sufficient income, I bequeath all my personal chattels, and the copyright of my novel
Black Widow
for her lifetime, in testimony of my gratitude for nearly thirty years of devoted companionship.'” Mr. Widdicomb bobbed his head in Lady Fairleigh's direction: “Most moving.”

“It was what I expected,” said Eleanor, looking round at the children. “Of course, I have more than enough for my own needs. Oh, dear,
Black Widow.
I don't remember it at all. I suppose that's Oliver's sense of humor again.”

“‘To my dear son Terence I bequeath absolutely the copyright of my novel
Foul Play at the Crossroads,
to be of support to him when his musical activities should cease to entertain the British public.'”

A shadow flitted across the handsome face of Terence, and he shifted position in his chair so as to be able to see Bella.

“‘To my beloved daughter Bella, I bequeath the copyright of my novel
Right Royal Murder,
not my best but my most popular work, as testimony to my great love of her, and in order to keep her over the years in the little luxuries to which I imagine she will not become the less addicted.'”

As Mr. Widdicomb's voice faded, Bella sat tense, as if waiting for more. “But—” she said, flushing.

“‘I devise and bequeath all the residue of my real and personal estate, whether of property, shares, money, or copyright in my other works, to my son Mark, to be his absolutely, in the confident hope that he will be worthy of the family name.' Dear me, not well put, not well put at all.”

But it was not the phraseology that was affecting his hearers. Terence's gaze, and that of Bella, had now shifted, and they were both gazing incredulously at Mark. Mr. Widdicomb foresaw the sort of scene that he made it his business if possible to avoid. He shuffled together the papers and reached down for his briefcase.

“There are a few more remarks of no great importance that I need not trouble you with now. Needless to say, you will all be sent copies of the document. If I may say so, a most proper disposition of his property, most proper—hmm, granted, as I say, some oddities in the wording.”

He rose to his feet and walked over to Mark with his hand outstretched.

“Is that will legal?” broke in the harsh voice of Bella. “Is it properly witnessed?”

Mr. Widdicomb, caught with his hand outstretched in something approaching a ridiculous position, turned toward her with the nearest thing to asperity he permitted himself with the
family of a client. “My dear young lady, you could hardly imagine that I would take the trouble to read to you from an unwitnessed document?” His voice positively crackled with disapproval. “The will is perfectly legal.”

Bella sustained his look for a second, then the corners of her mouth seemed to crease down with disappointment. “That,” she said bitterly, “was Daddy's last surprise ending.”

Mr. Widdicomb pursed his lips, turned away from her, and fulfilled his intention of shaking hands with Sir Mark. His natural inclination to keep in well with the man in possession tied in on this occasion with his sense that Mark was the only one of the children who had behaved properly: that is, he had held his tongue. Mr. Widdicomb had heard rumors on the subject of Mark Fairleigh—had, indeed, heard his father expatiate on the subject at considerable length one day in his office—but he owned himself agreeably surprised by his conduct on this occasion. He turned to take the hand of Lady Fairleigh, dropped a few words of arid comfort on her head, nodded to the youngest children, and made for the door. Mark ushered him out, and the two exchanged some words, apparently arrangements for some future meeting.

Bella continued to sit rigidly, staring straight ahead of her: her mouth had stopped working, and was now set in a straight line. Terence, on the other hand, seemed to be taking longer to gain control over himself. His eyes were round and liquid—they were, in fact, oddly reminiscent of those of the old Mark. Eleanor Fairleigh remained in her chair, looking at the hearth rug. The news had not elated her. She could only think to herself: what are the police going to say about this?

Mark closed the door authoritatively. Walking back to the little group, a disinterested observer would have sized him up as a presentable, well-brought-up young man who had gone through a difficult time: his manner was good, his bearing and expression public school, but not offensively so. The whole set of his body seemed to say that at the moment they might all be going through a tough time, but that he was now in charge, and would see them
through it all right. His gaze, though still slightly bloodshot, was perfectly serene.

“Nearly lunchtime,” he said quietly. “I'm sure you could do with a sherry, Mother. I should think we all could. Is it dry for you, Bella?”

And he walked confidently over to the drinks cabinet.

“God damn you to hell, Mark!” shouted Bella, her face crimson with fury as she flung herself from the room.

“It seems,” said Inspector Meredith, “a perfectly straightforward division of the property.”

Mr. Widdicomb shut the will away in his briefcase hurriedly, as if it were a rare item of Victorian pornography which he had been allowing Meredith to cast a glance over, and said: “Quite.”

“The books, the ones left to the mother and the younger children, they will bring in a fair amount of money, I presume.”

“I imagine so,” said Mr. Widdicomb, gazing around the oak, book-lined study as if it were witness enough to Oliver Fairleigh's prosperity. “You would have to consult Sir Oliver's accountant for details, but I assume it will bring them in a little nest egg every quarter or half year.”

“The books seem popular.”

“Yes, most of them seem to be kept in print. One sees them—on railway bookstalls and suchlike places.”

“You don't enjoy them yourself?”

“I imagine that no one who had any professional acquaintances with crime or criminals would be likely to find them very convincing.” Mr. Widdicomb's expression was of the most dyspeptic, and Meredith had the impression not only that he had found his late client profoundly distasteful, but that on the present occasion he was holding back a strong inclination to say something sharp about the same gentleman's family.

“Of course,” said Meredith, at a hazard, “younger children these days always have the idea that they should be treated on an equality with the eldest.”

“They do. Frequently,” said Mr. Widdicomb, with icy
warmth. “It is not an idea with much to be said in its favor, in my opinion. Our old families have enough to contend with as it is, without that.”

“You think in this case the younger children expected more?” asked Meredith, rather disappointed by Mr. Widdicomb's cautious habit of speaking in generalities.

“That, I think you should ask them,” said the lawyer, rising and smoothing down the jacket of his suit. “You must remember that the family are my clients.”

“Of course, of course. I suppose you would not wish to tell me whether you yourself were surprised at Sir Oliver's disposition of his property?”

“I presume you are alluding to the relations between him and his eldest son?”

“Precisely.”

“It is not my job to be surprised. I merely had the will made out in my office. Sir Oliver's opinions on the subject of his son were no business of mine. He did not see fit to discuss the main provision of the will with me, nor did I expect him to.”

“But you did have direct dealings with him over the will?”

“Certainly. He signed it in my office, where it was witnessed by two of my staff. It was, in fact, substantially the same as Sir Oliver's previous will: the provisions for Miss Cozzens and Surtees were new, and the book whose copyright was given to Bella was changed—that, as I remember, was all.”

“Why was the book changed?”

“I imagine it was a more popular title than the previous choice.
Right Royal Murder
came out last year, you remember, in good time for the Queen's Jubilee. A catchpenny idea, if you want my opinion, and quite unworthy of an author of Oliver Fairleigh's standing, but the book proved very successful. No doubt that was the reason for the change. Now, if you will allow me, Inspector—”

And Mr. Widdicomb made for the door.

Mr. Widdicomb, thought Idwal Meredith to himself, tried to have it both ways: to be at once an oyster of the old school and
to make sure that his opinions—especially his disapprovals—were known and felt. Meredith had the impression that should the need absolutely arise he could get quite a lot out of Mr. Widdicomb.

Meanwhile, what he needed was someone more obviously loose-tongued, to fill him in on the sort of family background that the family themselves were unlikely to be forthcoming about. He had rather liked the look of Surtees when he had shown him in—or rather, he had liked the look of him as a potential witness. He looked at his watch. Probably he would be still occupied with lunch. On an impulse he took up the phone and dialed headquarters.

“Any results yet? . . . Oh, just come in . . . I see. The decanter and one of the glasses . . . Interesting . . . A solution—strong enough to kill a normal man? . . . I see—and with his heart condition that made it quite certain. . . . Good. Keep at it, and I'll chug along at this end.”

He put down the receiver, fireworks of anticipation in his eyes. Now he had a case. Now everything could be open and direct, without the “ifs” and “on the other hands.” Nicotine poison. An unusual method, but easy enough to obtain, if you knew the way. It always terrified Meredith, in fact, to think how very easy poison was to obtain, if you knew the way. Luckily very few people did, or there would probably be far more murders which were cheerfully accepted as death from natural causes.

Meredith slipped out into the hall, and stopped to speak to Sergeant Trapp, massive and rural, who was stationed there to coordinate the work of the detective-constables in the various parts of the house. Trapp was being watched beadily by Cuff, who seemed to regard sergeants as a sadly deteriorated race of men.

“We have a case, Jim. It was nicotine in the decanter. I want your boys to get hold of the clothes everyone wore that night, and put the forensic chappies on to them. Oh, and you'd better send over and get them from the Woodstocks too, and all the servants. Anyone who would have had a chance to go into the study that night.”

“Big job, sir.”

“What are the labs for, if not for jobs like that?” Idwal Meredith's voice had the slightest note of contempt in it. As he spoke he saw Surtees emerge from the dining room with a tray full of dessert plates in his hands. He put the tray on a side table, and closed the door quietly. Then he went through into the servants' quarters.

“Tell me, Jim,” said Meredith softly, “what's your opinion of that gentleman?”

Sergeant Trapp surreptitiously drew his hand from behind his back, and with his fingers and thumb illustrated the notion of a duck, quacking.

“That was rather my impression,” said Meredith. “I think Surtees is my man at the moment.”

 • • • 

Lunch was not an easy meal for any of the three who took it. Mark and his mother tried to keep the conversation on neutral topics, but after a death and a will, there suddenly seemed to be no neutral topics left in the world. They discussed the funeral, but could come to no firm decisions in view of the uncertainties caused by the police. They broached the possibility of a memorial service, but (without their saying so) it occurred to both of them that it would turn into a gathering of people Oliver Fairleigh had insulted, congratulating themselves on having the last laugh.

Mark drank, with lunch, one and a half glasses of white wine—less, in fact, than Terence. There was a palpable effort involved, but he won a clear victory over his inclinations, and by the end of the meal seemed to be in a mood of some serenity. His mother felt that, on this score at least, her heart should have been light, but in fact her feelings were mixed: what would the police think about a young man whose alibi for his father's death was that he was drunk, who was—to all appearances—a confirmed alcoholic, yet who underwent a miraculous cure the moment his father died? Over and over Eleanor Fairleigh found her mind returning to the question: what will the police think? Which was
odd, for she had so far admitted to no one that her husband's death could conceivably be a case of murder.

Terence's mind was on other things. He sat slumped through the meal, hardly bothering even to toy with his food, the picture of romantic melancholy. When he spoke it turned out that (like so many romantics) he had been thinking of himself and money.

“Foul Play at the Crossroads,”
he said abruptly, “which one is that?”

“It's about witchcraft,” said Mark. “I remember it coming out, because the money paid for my twenty-first party. It was very popular—witchcraft always goes down well.”