The Sibyl in Her Grave (15 page)

“So I decided what I’d better do was think of something interesting to say about Parsons Haver and work out what sort of conversation I could say it in. But I stayed awake for hours trying to think of something interesting about Parsons Haver and I just couldn’t think of anything.”

“But my dear Cantrip,” said Ragwort, having now returned from his errand at the bar, “there are any
number of interesting things to be said about Parsons Haver. It has on several occasions played a significant part in our country’s history, and the Norman tower of St. Ethel’s is described by Pevsner as one of the finest in the country.”

“Well,” said Cantrip, “if your mate Pevsner had been there, he could have said that, but he wasn’t. The only thing I could think of that I knew about the place was that it was on the way to Brighton. So I decided what I’d better do was start talking to Albany about how we got from London to Invercrackett, and that could lead on to talking about how you could get from London to other places, and that could lead on to talking about how you got from London to Brighton. And then I could just sort of casually mention that I’d heard one of the best ways was through Parsons Haver.”

I said that that sounded most ingenious.

“Well, it would have been, except that I couldn’t get Albany to cooperate. Every time I started talking to him he’d sort of move away and start talking to someone else. The trouble was, you see, his List of People I Want To Be Friends With didn’t exactly have my name at the top. On the first day I’d shot quite a lot more birds than he had and he’d been a bit miffed about it. After that old Invercrackett tipped me the wink to miss a few more, because the whole idea was to put Albany in a good mood.

“So on the second day I kept my bag down to six brace, which ought to have been safe, but Albany only got five. He started off by missing one or two shots that ought to have been easy and got shirty about it, and the shirtier he got the more he missed. He tried to make out it was his loader’s fault—he kept shouting at the poor chap and calling him a bloody fool—but we could all
see it wasn’t. And the upshot was that by the end of the day we still weren’t bosom pals.

“And that night I had this awful dream, where Albany was actually asking me the best way from London to Brighton, and I knew it was tremendously important to give the right answer and I simply couldn’t remember what it was.

“By teatime on the third day I’d more or less given up. I wasn’t even trying to chat him up anymore, just wandering round the terrace eating a ham sandwich and admiring the rhododendrons. And then a chap I’d got quite matey with called out to ask me if I’d like a spot of fishing before dinner, and I saw that Albany was standing quite close to him. And quick as a flash, without even thinking about it, I shouted back, ‘Sorry, I’d better stay in, I’m expecting a phone call from someone in Parsons Haver.’ ”

“And did this produce any reaction from Albany?”

“Oh, absolutely. He gave a sort of yell and jumped about three feet in the air, as if he was practising for some kind of Highland war dance.”

“Dear me,” I said, “that does certainly sound as if the name had some significance for him.”

“Yes,” said Cantrip, “that’s what I thought. But it turned out he’d just been stung by a bee, so I suppose it’s a bit inconclusive.”

THERE APPEARED IN
the doorway of the Corkscrew the dishevelled figure of a woman, that is to say Julia, who stumbled towards our table displaying various signs of agitation.

Her researches in the Probate Registry had not proved reassuring: the grant of representation to the estate of Jeremiah Arkwright showed that he had died intestate and a bachelor, leaving his sister as his only next of kin. It seemed unlikely, in these circumstances, that the young man who called himself Derek Arkwright was his great-grandson, or indeed that his name was Derek Arkwright.

“There are many persons,” said Ragwort, “of the highest respectability, whose names are not Derek Arkwright.”

“Absolutely,” said Cantrip. “And the interesting thing is that most of them don’t go round saying ‘My name is Derek Arkwright.’ ”

I felt obliged to agree that the motives of those who seek to conceal their identities are not usually of the highest.

“You bet they’re not,” said Cantrip. “Jolly sinister is what they usually are. I’ll tell you who this chap is who isn’t Arkwright—he’s the henchman—Bolton’s or Albany’s, whichever of them did in Isabella. And they sent him down to the funeral to nose around and see if there were any loose ends, just like you said they would, Hilary. And he’s found out that the Reverend is the only person who could recognise the chap in the black Mercedes, so now he’s lured him off somewhere to do him in as well.”

Observing the effect of these remarks on Julia, who succumbs easily to panic, I endeavoured to persuade her that this was not the most probable explanation of the evidence before us: a man may be of dubious character without being a hired assassin. Though it did indeed appear that the Reverend Maurice might have been unwise or unfortunate in his choice of travelling companion, I thought it likely that his danger was financial rather than physical.

Selena, when she joined us, was in no mood to feel concern on behalf of those who went away on holiday. At a stage when the plumber claimed he could make no progress without the electrician, the electrician had been on holiday; by the time the electrician returned, the plumber was on holiday; by the time the plumber returned and agreed with the electrician that nothing more should be done without consulting the carpenter, the carpenter was on holiday. The only person, so far as Selena could see, who was not permitted to go on holiday, but was expected to remain in Lincoln’s Inn throughout the Long Vacation and worry about the building works, was herself.

If, therefore, the Reverend Maurice had also chosen to go on holiday, neglecting, very probably, his duty to
care for the souls of his parishioners, and if the project turned out badly for him, it was not to Selena that he should look for sympathy.

Having reported in the least alarming terms she could the result of her researches at the Probate Registry, Julia received her aunt’s reply two or three days later.

“Which is no doubt true,” said Julia, continuing to look anxious, “if that really is the worst that can happen. But if Cantrip’s henchman theory is right—”

“Julia,” said Selena firmly, “Cantrip’s henchman theory is complete moonshine. Albany and Bolton may have their faults, but they’re not the sort of people who hire professional assassins to dispose of witnesses. Anyway, the henchman theory depends on the idea that one of them poisoned Isabella, which in my view is also moonshine.”

“She was blackmailing one of them and he was there when she died—don’t you find that a little worrying? Or are you saying that the man in the black Mercedes wasn’t Albany or Bolton after all?”

“No, I don’t say that, but I do say that the man in the Mercedes wasn’t the only person she was blackmailing. What about Ricky Farnham, for example? We know she was blackmailing him—not for money, but into doing favours for her and spending time with her that he’d
obviously much rather have spent with your aunt. By his own admission, she’d been making his life hell for two years.”

“Yes, but Ricky wasn’t there when she died.”

“How do you know? He was evidently quite a regular visitor—why shouldn’t he have looked in for a nightcap after the man in the Mercedes had left and Daphne had gone to bed? And washed up all the glasses afterwards, including the one left by the previous visitor?”

“Selena,” said Julia, disconcerted by this suggestion, “you don’t seriously think that Ricky Farnham poisoned Isabella?”

“No, of course I don’t. I think that she died of heart failure, just as the doctor said she did. But if anyone happened to dig her up and find she was full of arsenic, I’d expect the police to question Mr. Farnham at least as closely as either of the directors of Renfrews’.”

September is not the month for takeover bids: those whose profession it is to advise on such matters may safely withdraw from London to recoup their energies in the country or on the shores of the Mediterranean. A major client of Renfrews’ Bank, however, unaware of this convention or indifferent to it, had decided to proceed with an acquisition of sufficient magnitude to require the personal attention of the Chairman, who was spending the summer in his villa overlooking the Bay of Cannes, and of the two executive directors.

Sir Robert, it seemed, had not after all lost confidence in Selena’s advice. On the second Monday of the month she received urgent instructions to fly immediately to the south of France to draft the documents required for the transaction. Undeterred by pitiful cries of
“What shall we do about the builders?” from her fellow members of Chambers, she accepted instantly.

It was thus that she happened to be present when Sir Robert Renfrew was poisoned.

Of this, however, we knew nothing until the following Monday, when she was once more among those gathered in the Corkscrew. Having returned by way of Paris and spent the weekend there in the company of Sebastian, she had paid a merely fleeting visit to Chambers to enquire if there were anything which urgently required her attention.

Though there was by now an autumnal sharpness in the evening air, she was still dressed in sandals and cotton, with a look about her of summer and southern warmth. Her mood, however, seemed thoughtful, one might almost have said subdued. When asked whether she had enjoyed herself in Cannes, she reflected for some moments and gave an equivocal answer.

Her first complaint was about the weather.