A Death in Two Parts (9 page)

“It seems so silly,” she began, but as she did so, the buzz of conversation that had covered them died away. Mrs Ffeathers was in command again.

“Now” – a piercing eye travelled around the room – “before we fill the stockings, I promised you a little surprise. I hope you noticed” – again that penetrating glance – “that I didn't say a pleasant little surprise. I wouldn't like you to think that I'd got you up here on false pretences. But one of you must have a pretty good idea what I'm talking about.” She allowed her pause to stretch out into an uneasy silence.

“Damn, damn, damn,” muttered Mark in Patience's ear. “It's that blasted five pounds. Poor old Mary; it'll finish Tony Wetherall once and for all. Can't you create a diversion, Patience? She might take it from you.”

“Not her.” Patience spoke with such feeling that he turned enquiring eyes.

“So that's the trouble? Shown her claws already, has she? You must tell me all about it afterwards.”

But Mrs Ffeathers was satisfied with the unhappy rustle she had stirred in the room. “Yes,” she went on, “not a very pleasant surprise for one of you, I'm afraid. But what a pity to spoil the festive season for the others.” She mocked Christmas cheer. “Perhaps we should have our fun first, and keep business to the last. I hope you've all brought
your presents with you.” She turned, totally charming now, to Tony Wetherall, who was sitting, blank-faced, beside Mary. “I hope we don't bore you with our old-fashioned customs. I do like a real Christmas, with stockings along the mantelshelf; I expect my granddaughter warned you.”

“Yes, she did say something about it.” Tony's self-possession, usually so iron-clad, had totally deserted him and he spoke through an outgrown stammer. “I brought a few little things … I hope it was all right …”

Mary had seen a chance. “Gran,” – she could be very engaging when she chose – “isn't the surprise a bit of a family affair? Do you think Tony and Brian want to be bothered with it?”

“I don't suppose they do.” The old lady allowed herself a sybilline chuckle. “But I thought they were here just because they were family – or almost.” A meaning look from Mary's ringless left hand to Priss's. “No, no; they're the guests in my house” – a powerful emphasis on the ‘my' – “and they're entitled to know what goes on in it. Now, out with the presents; there are paper and ribbon on the centre table if anyone hasn't wrapped theirs. Patience, where's the parcel you got for me? And, oh,” – as Patience handed it to her – “get me my Bovril, will you? I'll have it while we're filling the stockings. And two pills tonight.” She raised her voice as Patience reached the door that led into her bathroom. “I'm not going to miss my sleep for anyone.”

Glad to be alone for a minute, Patience half shut the bathroom door and turned up the tiny flame under the pan holding Mrs Ffeathers' evening Bovril and milk. The dark brown brew began to bubble at the edges almost at once and she turned quickly to the cupboard for the bottle of sleeping
pills. Mrs Ffeathers hated to have her milk boiled. She shook two tablets from the almost empty bottle and noticed as she did so that the new bottle she had put beside it earlier in the evening was no longer on the shelf. Could Mrs Ffeathers have moved it to the bedside table? She knew that the doctor disapproved of this habit, and warned herself to investigate later in the evening.

The pills were totally dissolved by now, and she returned to the other room where the stocking filling was well under way in an atmosphere of more gaiety than she would have believed possible.

“Good.” Mrs Ffeathers reached out a slightly trembling hand for the cup. “That ought to put hair on my chest.” A wicked eye surveyed the company for reactions. “Now, Joseph, the brandy, and no nonsense with it on the way.”

Silently, Joseph moved from his chair by the fire to the corner cupboard and brought back a half full brandy bottle.

“A good slug, mind,” said his mother. “What you'd give yourself – if you could get it.”

Obediently, he poured a full measure into the steaming cup and returned the bottle to its cupboard. She sipped. “Ah, nice and strong. Now, where are we? The stockings all filled? Just about time for my surprise, then.”

“But aren't we going to open them first?” The interruption came, surprisingly, from silent Seward.

“Why? Can't you wait to play with your new toys till the morning? Or have you some other reason?”

He shrank. “No, no; I just thought … We always used to open them on Christmas Eve.”

“Do let's, Gran.” Mark spoke up from beside Patience. “What's the use of waiting till tomorrow morning?”

“Oh, very well.” Her tone was surprisingly subdued. “Have it your own way. Open them up quickly, though; and let me have a little peace. I'm tired of the whole pack of you.”

The present-opening was a masterpiece of delaying action. By the time the last piece of tissue paper had been carefully refolded and the last shred of ribbon picked up off the carpet, it was after midnight and Mrs Ffeathers was drooping in her chair. “What d'you think,” Mark whispered to Patience, “a reprieve?”

“Might be.” Patience looked round the room, wondering who would have the skill, not to mention the courage, to persuade the old lady to go to bed without dropping her bomb. Certainly not Priss, drooping at the little table with the unwelcome teapot. Brian Duguid was hovering behind her, gloomily aware that this was where he was expected to be, and making the best of it by passing cups of tea and staying away for as long as possible. He had just handed a cup to Joseph, who scowled as he accepted it. No hope of Joseph's influence with his mother. And Josephine, who sat on the sofa near him, would be no more use. Patience's eye travelled along the seated circle: no hope from Emily, who sat absorbed in some hypochondriac trance, and certainly none from Seward and his wife who were remote from the room, engaged in a furious quarrel in dumb show and whispers.

The last cup of tea had been passed by now and Mrs Ffeathers seemed to be making a great effort to rouse herself. Patience turned, more desperately, to the circle of young people on the floor. Mark was no use, though she paused, regretfully, at the too handsome profile; nor yet
Leonora and Ludwig who sat on the floor on the other side of her, distanced from the party, as usual, in some discussion of their own. Beyond them, completing the circle on the floor, were Mary and Tony Wetherall, head to head. It was a chance. Deliberately, she turned to Mrs Ffeathers. “It looks as if Mary's got a real present,” she said.

Mrs Ffeathers started upright in her chair. “Well, Mary, are we to congratulate you – again?”

Mary blushed, becomingly of course, and turned to Tony. “I don't know,” she began, but he interrupted her.

“I hope you're going to congratulate me, Mrs Ffeathers. If you'll only persuade Mary that we don't need to wait for anything to get engaged. She wants to wait until after your ‘surprise',” he explained.

“She's a very clever girl,” said her grandmother. “All right, Mary, your point. I'm sleepy tonight and I can't be bothered with you all for another minute. My surprise will keep – don't you worry about that.” The bright, malevolent eyes travelled round the room. “Now be off with you, for goodness' sake. No; I won't be kissed tonight.” She waved Josephine away. “I've had enough kissing for one lifetime, and if you haven't, it's just too bad.”

After that, there was no ceremony in their flight. Only Patience lingered for a minute in the doorway. “Are you sure you wouldn't like me to stay and help you to bed? You must be dreadfully tired.”

“I am dreadfully tired.” The beautiful voice shook and spoiled the mimicry. “But not so tired I'm going to have a child like you fussing over undressing me. I may be ninety-one, but I'm not incapable yet, and when I am, I hope to God I'm dead. Get along with you now; Mark
is waiting for you outside. But remember what I told you about him.”

“Good-night, then.” Patience closed the door gently behind her and found Mark shaking with silent laughter. “There's not much gets past our Gran,” he said. “What did she tell you about me, Patience?”

“Oh, nothing, really.” The blush was uncontrollable.

“Bad as that, was it? Let's for the Lord's sake go get ourselves a drink and you can tell me all about it.” Taking her elbow, he steered her towards his room. “Come on, I landed a bottle of Scotch in Leyning this afternoon. Mary and Tony'll be at it already, if I know her.”

But when they got there, the room was dark. Patience hung back but Mark urged her forward.

“Come on, Mrs Grundy; to hell with the neighbours, you need a drink. Mar and Tony'll be here any minute to have their health drunk. She deserves it, too, landing him under Gran's nose like that.”

“Do you think her ‘surprise' is about the five pounds she lost?”

“Sure it is. I expect she's found out who took it. Or maybe she thinks she has and wants to frighten them into admitting it. Here, this'll fix you up.” He handed her the tall, warm glass of bedroom Scotch and soda.

“Thank you.” A sound in the hall made her look hopefully round, expecting Mary, but nobody came. “I really ought to go.” She made to rise as he sat down beside her on the cushioned divan.

“Please don't.” He put a hand on her shoulder and something fizzed inside her. “I want to talk to you. I've been wanting to all day.” He was overwhelmingly close
to her now, as he took her glass away and put it beside his on the bedside table. “Tell me it's happened to you too, Patience. It can't just be me, surely? Tell me it's hit you too.”

“What, Mark—?” What was happening to her? Panic hit her. She was losing control.

“Don't say ‘This is so sudden',” he interrupted her. “I couldn't bear it. I'm asking you to marry me, Patience. I love you. It's the strangest thing. I never thought it would happen to me. I had quite different plans. Please listen to me. I'm not much of a prospect as I stand, I know, but say yes and I'll turn to and work like a Trojan. You'll be the making of me. You're what I needed; someone to work for, bowler hat and all.”

“But it
is
sudden.” She moved a little away, afraid of what would happen if he touched her again. Something in her was out of hand, and it scared her. “We hardly know each other, Mark. And everything here is so strange. I don't like the feel of things. It's not the time.”

“But that's just what it is, you know. It's our moment. Let's take it, Patience. This is a hell of a household, but we could cope with it together.”

His hand was on her shoulder again, trying to turn her to face him, and panic suddenly won. She broke free and stood up. “Not tonight, Mark. Not after all that's gone on. It's too quick, not right, I can't—”

“Then I'll ask you again in the morning. Think it over, dear, darling Patience, and I'll ask again in the morning.”

She was shaking all over as she fled to her room, but there was a warm glow inside her. He would ask again in the morning. She must think it over. She must sleep on it,
this new feeling that did such strange things to her. She had been alone for so long. Was this the end of it?

Getting into bed, she remembered that she had never checked on Mrs Ffeathers' pills. Too late now. Wild horses would not get her back into that room. Mrs Ffeathers was dangerous, her threats not to be dismissed. She should have told Mark about it, but how could she? Maybe she would in the morning. She fell asleep, thinking of the morning, smiling to herself.

The morning came too soon. Sitting up, dazed, in bed, she heard again the sound that had awoken her, a scream from the room next door. Her dressing gown was inside out, one slipper had vanished, but somehow, still half asleep, she was at the door leading to Mrs Ffeathers' room. Opening it, she stood appalled. Andrews, the elegant parlour maid, was having hysterics over a dropped breakfast tray, coffee and hot milk soaking silently into the deep red carpet. One crimson-nailed hand held back the heavy red velvet curtains of the four-poster bed; but the bed was empty. It was beyond it, at the big wing-chair, that the maid directed her screams. Hurrying round to the fireplace, Patience saw why. Mrs Ffeathers was still sitting as she had when they left her the night before, sitting still, too still …

The maid screamed again and Josephine appeared in the other doorway. “What on earth's the matter?” Then, “My God … Mother!” She pulled her ostrich-feather wrap more closely around her and stood for a minute, taking it in. Then she turned. “For God's sake, Andrews, pull yourself together and pick up that china. We shall have to phone the doctor.
Patience, could you, while I dress?” Executive again, she turned and left the room.

Patience paused for a moment and watched Andrews tearfully picking up broken china. “You'd better stay,” she said, “till I get back.”

Andrews looked up at her, sniffling. “Oh, miss, I can't. Not alone, so help me I can't.”

“What's the trouble?” Relieved, Patience turned to see Joseph in the doorway. “Mother ill?”

Incoherently, and crying now herself, she began to explain, but a glance at the figure in the chair told him enough. “Right,” he said, “I'll handle it. You and Andrews stay here till I get back, will you?” He closed the door softly behind him and they heard the key turn in the lock.

Andrews instantly went off into hysterics again and Patience had her hands full for the next few minutes. As she alternately bullied and cajoled the sobbing girl into comparative calmness she wondered, half-consciously, why Joseph had wanted them both to stay. Just as well, perhaps. “Come on,” she said, “help me to clear this up.”

However, Andrews was making the most of her license to hysteria. Better to get her under control before the doctor came. Patience hurried to Mrs Ffeathers' bathroom for her bottle of smelling salts. But the small bottle was not in its place and though she looked hastily among Mrs Ffeathers' collection of pills, lotions and creams she could see no sign of it. Could she have left it in her own room? But when she tried her door she found that it was locked too. She and Andrews were shut in with the body. She shivered and Andrews went off into a new tornado of sobs. “Here—” Patience hurried to the cupboard and brought out
Mrs Ffeathers' brandy bottle – “drink this.” She poured a generous measure into the glass from beside the bed and made Andrews swallow it.