Death of a Mystery Writer (8 page)

Eleanor Fairleigh straightened her back. “Indeed you will not, Bella,” she said directly and determinedly, looking unblinkingly at her daughter. Then she turned back to her husband.

Terence put out his hand and took Bella's in his.

 • • • 

Half an hour later the ambulance had been and gone, conveying swiftly and efficiently Sir Oliver and Lady Fairleigh. Dr. Leighton had driven up as it was leaving, and had relieved Surtees of the task of going with them. The Woodstocks had taken the opportunity to slip off, after a few words of sympathy and hope to the ones left behind.

“I'm sure he'll be all right,” said Celia Woodstock to Bella, her face assuming a standard expression.

“Oh? Why?” said Bella. Her eyes were quite dry now, and
they looked directly at Celia. She turned away, discomforted, and she and Ben were soon seen walking down the drive, he long and cadaverous, she short and homely. From a distance they seemed oddly ill-assorted. They were not talking.

At ten forty-five the phone rang. Terence Fairleigh was there in a second, and snatched it up.

“Wycherley two-two-five-one. Oh, Mother . . . My God—so soon? . . . I felt sure it was going to be all right. I didn't expect . . . Shall we come? . . . Dr. Leighton? All right, I'll tell Surtees to make you something. Good-bye, Mum.”

He put down the telephone. “He's dead,” he said. He looked at Bella, whose eyes once more were overflowing. “Mum's coming back now with Dr. Leighton.”

Bella seemed about to sink down into a chair and crumple up. Terence took her hands, held them tight.

“Don't break down, old girl,” he said. “Think of Mum. We two'll be all right.” But when she looked at him there was distrust in her face.

They were disturbed by a noise from near the door. Mark, deep in his armchair, first grunted, then rubbed his eyes, and then opened them, looking ahead blearily and uncertainly.

“What time is it?” he said. “Why are you still up?”

He saw the decanters in the open cupboard, and focusing his eyes on them he began to struggle to his feet.

“Arise, Sir Mark,” said Terence contemptuously.

Barbara Cozzens really rather enjoyed the morning after her employer's death. She was a tower of strength in a crisis, she felt—without, naturally, pushing herself forward or intruding where she was unwelcome. Her unflappability and her excellence at coping were qualities which had not been called on the previous evening: indeed, if she had not slipped down to the kitchen after she heard the ambulance drive away, she might not have known that her employer was even ill. Once down there, she had allowed Mrs. Moxon to administer coffee, and they had stayed on chatting in whispers (though why in whispers in that enormous kitchen with no one remotely near to overhear them she would have been at a loss to explain). Surtees, with their encouragement, went backward and forward periodically to the study, ostensibly to clear away the coffee cups and glasses. When he brought the news of Oliver Fairleigh's death, the two ladies had both said “No!” Then they had all switched to brandy and begun to discuss their futures.

This morning she sat at the desk where Sir Oliver only a few hours before had opened presents and dispensed liqueurs, dealing with inquiries and setting in train arrangements for the funeral. The death had been too late for the Sunday papers, but had been broadcast on the eight o'clock news. The secretary of the Crime Writers' Association phoned her official sympathy, as did some fellow detective writers: there was little grief, but much tact. She spoke to Gerald Simmington, Sir Oliver's editor at
Macpherson's, and (circling round the subject in the manner of those who are being worldly at a time when they feel they ought to be spiritual) they agreed how fortunate it was that
Murder Upstairs and Downstairs
had been finished before the tragedy of the night before.

“Because I certainly didn't know the solution myself,” Miss Cozzens confided. “And the public wouldn't have been very interested in an unfinished detective story, would they? After all, it's not as though he was Dickens . . .”

As Miss Cozzens sat at the desk, conspicuously coping, her thoughts turned to her own future. They were helped in this direction by Cuff, who sat at her feet, but kept making sorties round the room, whining wheezily and looking bewildered. Cuff knew things were different, and Miss Cozzens faced up to the changes in her own life too. Perhaps she regretted them less than Cuff did. Of course, first she would have to stay on for a few weeks here, perhaps a few months, for she knew more about Sir Oliver's literary and business affairs than anyone in the house and she would be needed—or “indispensable” as she put it to herself. After that—a holiday, a late holiday, a real Indian summer, in Greece, or southern Italy, or perhaps the West Indies. Then a new job. It would have been nice to have a change from authors, she thought wistfully, but it seemed foolhardy to waste her experience of the last few years: having worked for Oliver Fairleigh, she could pick and choose in the literary world. And after all, she could not be sure that a businessman or a politician would turn out any better.

She would be careful what
kind
of writer she engaged herself to, of course: nothing would induce her to consider employment with a romantic lady novelist, for example: candy-coated sarcasms and slavery for a pittance were the fate of those who let themselves fall into that trap. But a biographer would be nice, a sort of popular historian. Her capacity for research had never been properly exploited in her present job, especially as Sir Oliver had been so criminally careless over details. The sort of person who wrote biographies of the romantic poets or the queens of England
would suit her down to the ground, thought Miss Cozzens, warming her feet on Cuff.

She was in the middle of constructing this particular aerial edifice when she was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. She set her face in an expression of containable grief, and took up the receiver.

“Oh, Dr. Leighton, how good of you to ring. . . . No, Lady Fairleigh is already up, and taking it very well, considering. . . . It's not as though it's entirely unexpected, is it? I believe they're in the sitting room now—I'm trying to keep all the worrisome stuff from them, till they're more used to the idea, more able to cope. . . . I'm sorry, Dr. Leighton, could you repeat that, I don't quite understand.... Not satisfied? But... an autopsy . . .
police,
but... Are you sure you wouldn't like to tell Lady Fairleigh about this yourself, Dr. Leighton? . . . Of course, if you wish it, I'll tell her.... Thank you, Doctor, it's kind of you to say so.... I'll tell her straightaway.”

But when she put down the phone, she sat for some time, staring ahead of her, her face still wearing the mask of decorous grief, but her forehead slightly creased. Then she got up, squared her shoulders, and walked resolutely to the door.

 • • • 

“Of course, one keeps
saying
it's not unexpected,” said Eleanor Fairleigh, putting down a cup of strong coffee, and looking round at her children; “I'm sure Miss Cozzens is saying that to everyone at the moment. But when it comes to the point, it
isn't
expected, and the shock is just as great, however many doctors' warnings there may have been.”

“Still, it's not as though Father was an easy person to keep in order,” said Terence, his voice on a very even keel. “Doctors' warnings didn't mean much to him.”

“Well, but he did try, you know,” said the widow. “He very seldom smoked, and he had cut down on his drinking an awful lot. He never took spirits at all, and only the occasional glass of lakka at weekends. Really, you know, considering your father's character, he was surprisingly good.”

“But there was the wine,” said Bella. “Daddy said he'd rather die than give that up.”

It wasn't a fortunate expression. Bella was looking less than her perfectly groomed self, though still enormously self-controlled. Her hair was falling around her shoulders with hardly a wave, and some of her makeup looked left over from the previous night.

“In any case,” said Mark, sober and suited, though somewhat bloodshot of eye, “he kept the keys, so he could always have helped himself whenever he wanted one.”

“But I kept a very good eye on him, you know, dear,” said his mother. “And so did Miss Cozzens. Of course there were occasions when he had one or two when he shouldn't: like finishing the last book, for example. But on the whole I think he stuck to the routine Dr. Leighton prescribed, with his own little modifications. I must say I was astonished at how well he kept to it. I think in his own way he enjoyed life.”

“I'm sure he did,” said Mark inscrutably.

“Doesn't anyone feel like a drink now?” said Bella. Her mother shot her a furious glance, and attempted the hopeless task of shaking her head imperceptibly. Bella ignored her. “Well, I do, anyway,” she said, as she marched to the cupboard and took out a bottle. She poured herself a neat whisky. “No one else?”

“No thanks, Bella,” said Mark, drinking the last of his coffee and setting his cup down.

“No thanks,” said Terence, after a pause.

Bella had effectively destroyed the atmosphere of discreet family mourning. They all sat there, trying not to look at Mark, wondering at his refusal, and wondering what to talk about. Eleanor felt a wave of relief wash over her, dousing the anger toward her daughter. She thanked heaven there had not been time to try and stop Mark from accepting, otherwise she surely would have driven him to doing it. The others juggled feverishly with possible topics of conversation. Money, of course, was out. It had to be something with reference to Father, but without reference to his will. It was not easy.

“I hope his last book is good,” said Bella at last, perhaps feeling
a mite repentant. “It will be so much better to go out with a bang, and so much more like him.”

As if on cue, Miss Cozzens came in with the bang.

“Lady Fairleigh, I wonder if I might talk to you for a moment,” she said.

“But is it anything the children can't hear, Barbara?”

“Well, no, I suppose they'll have to know. But it's a little difficult to explain. Dr. Leighton has just rung—”

“So kind. He has been
very
good all the time.”

“—and he says they're not completely satisfied at the hospital about the cause of death.”

“The cause of death, Barbara? But it was a heart attack. I told them about Oliver's heart.”

“They're not quite satisfied about the cause of the attack, he says. They're not quite sure that it was caused naturally.” Miss Cozzens was so embarrassed that she could hardly look at them straight as she said it.

Eleanor Fairleigh-Stubbs looked at her in increasing bewilderment, and then looked round at her children.
“Naturally.
But how can a heart attack be natural? I don't understand what—”

“Mother,” said Bella in a flat, brutal voice, “did you never read any of Daddy's books? They think someone killed him.”

“Bella!” Her mother's mouth gaped, her eyes filled with tears, and she seemed to crumple up.

“Now please, Lady Fairleigh, nothing whatsoever has been said about any such thing,” said Barbara Cozzens briskly. “There is merely a question of an autopsy, to determine the cause of death with complete certainty. I'm sure we're all much too sensible to jump to conclusions, aren't we?” She threw a disapproving glance in Bella's direction, but Bella continued sipping her whisky and staring straight ahead. Miss Cozzens thought to herself that she seemed to have lost a lot of that quality of coolness which had always been her great weapon.

“Miss Cozzens is right, Mother,” said Mark. “I'm sure it's just routine. It will all be cleared up in a few hours.”

“And if it's not?” said Terence significantly.

“Terence!” said Barbara Cozzens sharply, addressing him for the first time for some years by his Christian name. “I should have thought you'd have had more sense—”

“If it's not,” said Mark, not avoiding his gaze, “we in this family ought to know what follows.”

Eleanor Fairleigh, who had been gazing wide-eyed at all her children, at last broke down into sobs. Her tall, strong-boned body heaved up and down, and sounds came from her that were at once heartbroken and terrified. Mark went over to her chair and sat down on the arm. “Now, come on, Mum,” he said, putting his arm around her. “They're just being silly. You know how we are sometimes. There's no question of anyone having killed him. Just bear up. You've had all the strain. Come on, Mum, don't break down now.”

“Really,” said Miss Cozzens (the approaching termination of whose employment seemed to have loosened her tongue), “you two should be soundly spanked.”

“For facing facts?” said Bella. She looked challengingly at Barbara Cozzens, and then beyond her to the door. Surtees was standing there, and behind him, keeping in the shadow, was a man in uniform. They were obviously considering how to break in on the scene, and Bella wondered how long they had been there.

“Excuse me, my lady,” said Surtees, “but this is Chief Inspector Meredith.” He seemed to want to say more, but couldn't get it out, so he retreated into the murk of the hall, where other uniformed figures seemed to be waiting.

“I'm sorry to have to trouble you, Lady Fairleigh,” said the chief inspector, his mouth set in an expression of grief, but his eyes dancing and sparkling as if they belonged to another play, “but it's perhaps best to talk to you all together.”

Miss Cozzens's heart gave a strange leap, as if she had been here before. For the voice, pleasant and musical, had an unmistakable Welsh lilt.