Slight Mourning (11 page)

“That's right. She had six dishes. That made twelve. One each. But she gave me some raspberries to take home to Mum because there wasn't one over for me. Then they went on to the cheese and port.”

“What colour are his eyes?”

“Brown,” said Milly promptly. “I'll tell you what I did try, though. The wine. Mrs. Fent didn't touch hers. Left it in the glass. So I had that while I was clearing away. Quite nice it was, too.”

“Ghent's eyes were blue,” said Crosby.

Milly poked his chest affectionately. “Brown. I'd never forget a thing like that. I've seen all his films.” She put her glass down and looked into his eyes. “Do you remember that scene at the end when he was reunited with his childhood sweetheart? That wasn't no stand-in.”

“It's high time you went home, young Milly,” said Crosby.

NINE

Detective Inspector Sloan spent his evening on the case too.

At home.

“Margaret,” he asked his wife, “how would you plan a dinner party for twelve?”

“I shouldn't,” said Mrs. Margaret Sloan. “Why? You haven't asked a whole team here, have you?”

“No, but it's a thought.” He grinned. “Just to prove how wrong they were.”

“What about?”

“Bachelordom.”

“Don't you dare. Besides, we haven't twelve of everything, have we?”

“No. But,” persisted her spouse, “if you had to, what would you give them to eat?”

“Well, now,” she sat back in the easy-chair, considering, “when everything's done and dusted you can't beat a roast for a real crowd.”

“What about crown of lamb?”

“Good idea. It would be nice and cheap, too.”

“Cheap?” That was something that hadn't occurred to Sloan.

“All you need are two joints of best end of lamb and that's not a dear cut. You'd get a good meal for twelve out of that for as little as anything else bar a stew.”

“Would you now … I knew I'd married a good manager.”

“I don't know if your mother would agree with you there.”

“Ah, well … that's different.”

“Yes.” She eyed him as if she was about to say something more. “Perhaps it is. Anyway, crown of lamb makes a very nice-looking dish, too,” she told him. “It looks more splendid than it is. You get the butcher to remove the chine bones and then you sew up both ends together back to back.”

Sloan nodded comprehension. “Then you cook it.”

“Then,” she explained patiently, “you fill the ring in the centre with plenty of stuffing. And, of course, if you want to gild the lily …”

“Yes?” Anything could be a clue at this stage. Anything at all.

“Then you put cutlet frills on the ends of the bones.”

“Cutlet fri … oh, I know. Those paper things that look like chef's hats for dolls.” All he hoped was that he never had to try to explain them to Superintendent Leeyes, that was all.

Margaret Sloan smiled and a thrill of warm contentment went through him. “It's not too bad, being married to a policeman, is it?” he said.

“Not bad at all,” she said in the faintly dry tone she used where someone else might have got emotional.

“Wait until I'm out every night in a row for a month.”

“I'll go home to Mother …”

“Or I have to go after a mad gunman.” He moved forward. “You'd better kiss me now in case I don't come back when I do.”

“Idiot. Now about those frills …”

“It doesn't matter about the frills. A plain kiss will do.”

“With the frills on the tips of the bones,” she said firmly, “the circle really does look like a crown.”

“I've often wondered what they were used for.”

“Effect”—she frowned—“unless you're meant to pick them up at that end for a good chew.”

“You can lose the best bit of a chop with only a knife and fork,” pronounced Sloan judicially. “There's nothing like the fingers.”

“Anyway, the frills make something special of it.” She turned towards the bookcase. “I expect I can rustle up a picture of it for you. The cookery books usually do a photograph of one.” She ran a finger along the bookshelf. “We had enough of them given to us for wedding presents. I don't know what everyone thought I was going to do—starve you. There's something else that you can do if the cook has an artistic frame of mind—had she?”

“I don't know,” said Sloan. “I haven't seen enough of her to find out. Yet. All we know about her to date is that she's small, dark, and very attractive.”

“But you didn't notice her particularly?”

“No,” he said, straight-faced. “Only in the police sense.”

“I know.” She nodded. “Strictly in the line of duty. It's not too bad, being a policeman, is it?”

“You learn to notice things,” said Margaret's husband. “Five foot four, I should say. Black hair …”

“So that you would know her again in a crowd?”

“Have to keep your eyes open on the job.”

“Naturally.”

“Good legs and better ankles.”

“Which dish are we talking about now?”

Sloan grinned. “Crown of lamb. Why did you want to know if Mrs. Fent was artistic?”

“If she was, then she'd probably pipe creamed potatoes round the outside edge of the lamb.”

“And that looks like ermine, I suppose.”

“Idiot,” she said for the second time.

“Especially with the odd pea strategically placed in the potato,” he said.

“I'd better put the coffee on.”

Later he came back to the subject of the meal at Strontfield Park.

“Perhaps, Margaret, you can tell me something else?”

“Yes, Officer?”

“Why would Mrs. Fent have served cold soup?”

“Less trouble than grapefruit,” replied Mrs. Sloan without hesitation. “And cheaper than melon. And pâté—what your mother and mine used to make themselves and call potted meat—is out because you can't do hot toast for twelve if you've got the roast on your mind.”

“But why was the soup served cold?”

“Because that meant she could dish it out earlier—before the guests arrived, perhaps. Serving twelve plates of hot soup from a tureen is a bit of a performance and even if you pour it out beforehand hot it'll be cold by the time you've got twelve people sitting down and settled. Cold soup's quite nice, anyway.”

“Never.” He took his coffee from the tray. “Aren't you having any?”

She shook her head. “It upset my tummy last night.”

“Do you realize, Margaret, that we don't even know where the people were all sitting at that table and yet it's all China to a sixpence that one of them poisoned Bill Fent.”

“Well,” she responded promptly, “with those sort of people you can be sure that the chief lady guest would have been on the host's left and the chief gentleman ditto on the hostess's left, second most important on the host's right and hostess's right. That's six for you.”

“So Fent would have had Mrs. Washby on his left—the whole show was in her honour—and,” he cast his mind through the diners' names, “Miss Paterson, would you say, on his right? She was the oldest …”

“But unmarried,” said Mrs. Sloan. “I'd say that the next oldest married woman would be there.”

“Mrs. Ursula Renville. I must say I rather liked the look of her.”

“Then,” said Margaret Sloan ironically, “you may be sure that she'll have been next to the host.”

“That would put Dr. Washby on one side of Mrs. Fent and Richard Renville on the other.”

“With your Miss Paterson next to Dr. Washby and the next most important male …”

“The professor for sure …”

“Next to Mrs. Washby.”

Sloan opened his notebook. “That only leaves the Marchmonts …”

“The next on each side …”

“And the two cousins, Annabel Pollock and Quentin Fent.”

“Family,” said Margaret immediately. “You can put them in anywhere.”

“So,” said Sloan slowly, “the cold soup would have been on the table and with a bit of luck anyone knowing the setup and coming into the room beforehand would have worked out where nearly everyone was going to be asked to sit.”

Mrs. Sloan shivered suddenly. “I hadn't thought of it that way.”

“Especially the host and hostess—if you knew the head and foot of the table.” He went back to his notebook. “After the soup the crown of lamb with its stuffing and its fancy potatoes and what else?”

She paused for thought. “At this time of the year beans and peas, I should think, and then new potatoes—oh, and red currant jelly.”

“That's hardly letting the dog see the rabbit for trimmings,” he objected.

“That,” said the prudent housewife, “is the whole idea. It makes the rabbit go further.”

He looked at the clock and shut his notebook. “I'll have to find out more about that pudding in the morning.”

“She knew what she was doing, this Mrs. Fent of yours,” observed his wife. “That's a clever meal to do for twelve.”

“Clever?” That was something else he hadn't thought of either. That Mrs. Helen Fent was a clever woman was something that he conscientiously made a note of.

“Inexpensive, then,” amended Margaret Sloan. “I shouldn't think you could do much for less.” She gathered up his empty coffee cup. “Mostly prepared the day before, easy to serve and nice to look at without being ostentatious.”

“Neat but not gaudy,” agreed Sloan looking for the cat to put it out.

“Helen! Helen, what on earth are you doing down here? And at this time of night …”

Helen Fent started. “Oh, it's only you, Annabel. You gave me quite a fright.”

“And you gave me quite a fright,” countered the young nurse briskly. “I thought you were nicely tucked up in bed …”

“I was …”

“And then I find you pattering about downstairs in your night-dress. It's a white one, too.”

Helen gave a shaky little laugh. “I expect I do look a bit like a ghost.”

“In the dark as well.” Annabel was reproachful. “You might have put a light on.”

“Sorry,” she said penitently. “I didn't think.”

“I was just coming up to bed anyway,” said Annabel. “I would have come in to see if you needed anything for the night. Did you want another hot drink?”

“Yes … no. No”—Helen took a deep breath—“thank you.”

“Or a sleeping tablet? I've got some with me.”

“No, thank you.” Helen shook her head. “It's not that. I was just making quite sure we were all locked up for the night.”

“We are tonight,” said Annabel. “I must admit that we weren't last night. At least I found the garden door hadn't been locked when I went by last thing. I locked it myself. I meant to tell you but this morning there didn't seem time.”

“No,” agreed Helen gravely. “It's been quite a day.”

“Quentin must have forgotten it.”

Helen passed a hand in front of her eyes. “It was one of the things Bill always used to see to. It's not Quentin's fault—he's got enough to think about as it is—it's mine. I've just got to get used to doing things like that without Bill.”

“Tonight,” said Annabel Pollock not unkindly, “all you've got to get used to is staying in bed.”

“Sorry, Nurse”—Helen smiled faintly in the darkness—“but that's not as easy as you might think.”

“No,” agreed Annabel sympathetically, “but better get back to bed now all the same. Call me if you want anything—and do try to get some sleep.”

“Where's Quentin?”

“In the study. He's on the phone to Jacqueline. She rang ages ago and they're still at it.”

For Quentin Fent the course of true love never had run smooth so it was no more choppy than usual as he tried to explain to Jacqueline Battersby that he was the new owner of Strontfield Park.

“Unless,” he finished, “anything happens to me in the next three weeks.”

“Does that mean that Daddy will let us get married now?” she asked with feminine directness. Not for nothing had her father made his money by calling a spade a spade.

“I hope so but”—Quentin was cautious—“it's a real barn of a place.”

“Strontfield Park.” She let the name roll around in her mind. “There have been Fents there for generations, haven't there?”

“Yes,” said Quentin rather shortly, “and between them they've used up what money they ever had.”

“Daddy says property's better than money.”

“I daresay it is,” rejoined her fiancé with spirit, “when you've got both. One without the other's a bit of a bind.”

“All the same,” said Mr. Battersby's daughter shrewdly, “Daddy will be pleased when he hears.”

“He'll probably change his mind when he's seen the place,” said Quentin pessimistically.

“Why? What's wrong with it?”

“Nothing. That's the trouble. Don't get the idea that it's not very nice. It is. Too nice. With every preservation order, entail, covenant, and God knows what slapped on it and”—for a moment Quentin forgot his devotion to the world of fine art—“you can't even alter a flipping window without asking the whole world.”

“Didn't you once tell us something about some development or other?” Miss Battersby was every inch her father's daughter—and more.

“I did,” said Quentin reluctantly. He thought it high time the conversation took a more romantic turn. “I shall have to go into all that now with the legal eagles, but in the meantime, my love …”

“Daddy'll want to know,” said Jacqueline practically.

“Look here,” exploded Quentin hotly, “am I marrying you or asking planning permission?”

“Both, I hope,” said his affianced sweetly. “Together. When?”