“Face in the aspic,” reminded Bette.

  “He loathed aspic. Maybe the sight of it is what done him in. Once she realized how much wealth Ogden had possessed and had passed on to her, Nydia blossomed. She was now a very rich medium, which of course is very rare.” Bette and Cayman exchanged warm glances as he handed her her drink and then gave Agatha hers. “Nydia began to get even better. She took chances, such as once conjuring up what was supposed to be the spirit of Genghis Khan, and she knocked me for a loop—her Chinese was that good. It turned out in a misspent moment in her youth she had trafficked with a young Chinese juggler she met when she was doing music halls, and when he disappeared back to China he left her with little but a smattering of Mandarin.”

  “I knew it!” said Bette. “She did music halls! Isn't that what you said?”

  “Well, it’s a fact. She told me so ages ago.”

  “I suspected there was an actress hiding in the woodpile. And she’s a pretty good mimic too, isn’t she?”

  “She was right on the nose with Virgil, though for my taste I thought she overdid Mabel a bit. Of course, the Renee Adoree could have been any Frenchwoman sitting behind the cash register of a Montparnasse cafe. You have to admit, Bette, Nydia carries it off brilliantly, and she does suffuse the show with some charming bits of humor. Don’t you agreed”

  “Oh, sure. But oh boy, was she trying to tell us a lot with Mabel’s outburst and Virgil’s ‘There’s safety in numbers.’ Come on, Inspector, impress us with a theory. It’s quite obvious, or I think it’s quite obvious, that Nydia suspects Virgil's murder was the work of more than one person.”

  “You mean a conspiracy,” said Cayman. Bette nodded. “Those things are awfully hard to prove.”

  “Why?” asked Bette with her arms folded.

  “Mostly because one can be strangled by a tissue of lies. Before you can unravel the threads and get to the core, which is the truth, you have very little with which to make an accusation that will stick. No, I think there’s a single murderer behind Virgil’s death.”

  “What about Mabel?” Bette was in her element, and Agatha was having a whale of a time watching her and listening to her. Truly a sly puss.

  “What about her?”

  “Who murdered Mabel?”

  “She overdosed on a sleeping draught.”

  Bette turned to Agatha. “Was Mabel a poor sleeper?”

  “I knew you’d guess.”

  “So she took sleeping draughts to knock herself out.” Her voice went up an octave. “Very easily doctored! Except that in her case, unlike Virgil’s, she got hers in one fatal dose.”

  “Mabel had cancer. Inoperable.” Agatha waited to see what Bette would do with that bombshell.

  Bette’s eyes narrowed. “Agatha Christie, don’t try to trip me up. She was fed her death, and now I suspect she knew what she was getting, and obviously so suspects Nydia. All that improvisation about its not being bitter and tasting better than she thought, and how she wasn’t afraid of Death, especially if he looked like Freddie March. Well, just go ask Freddie's wife, Florence Eldridge, what kind of death her husband looks like after returning from some all-night session with the many aspiring actresses he seduces. Mabel was murdered, and whether or not she was a party to her own fate, I still call it murder. Don’t you, Inspector?”

  “You might have something there.” Bette heard encouragement and her winning smile convinced him he’d scored important points. “It certainly bears consideration.”

  “Of course it does!” said Bette with infectious enthusiasm. “Oh, damn! Why did we let Nydia slip through our fingers? I’m sure she suspects more than she let on tonight. Agatha, what's the truth about Nydia and Virgil? Were they really in love or were they going through the motions? Forgive me, but I’ve never had any reason to associate the British with intense passion.”

  “Have you never had an affair with an Englishman?” asked Agatha. She might as well have been asking if she’d ever sampled jellied eels.

  “No. Not really. Dear old George Arliss seemed to have a restrained interest in me, but I’d hardly call it passion.”

  “My dear girl,” said Agatha with a sly eye towards Cayman, “you must give it a try.”

  Bette laughed. “I’ll try anything once. Now, come on, you two, let’s stay with Virgil and Nydia. Agatha, you and Nydia have been confidantes for years.”

  “‘Confidantes' is a bit of an overstatement. We certainly gossip a great deal and see a flick or attend the theater together, but I think most of our innermost secrets remain just that, innermost. If you’re wondering whether she confided in me about her feelings about Virgil, I have every reason to believe Nydia kept a cool head where he was concerned. Keep in mind, Mabel was still among the living then and plotting and scheming her salons. Virgil was the bellwether of those gatherings. It was his sudden fame that gave Mabel the impetus to carve her way to the top of the social stratosphere. She hadn’t the international reputation enjoyed by Syrie Maugham and your Elsa Maxwell, but she had their kind of drive and determination. When Mabel was beginning her onslaught, Ogden and Nydia were a desirable couple. Ogden’s wealth kept him in the public eye. He was a very generous man and he gave his support to a variety of charities. He was awfully good to wayward girls.”

  “I’ll bet,” interjected Bette after exhaling an enchanting smoke ring.

  Agatha sighed. “I left myself open to that one. Actually, Ogden was very modest and self-effacing. He left the flamboyance to Nydia. When he met her, she’d done very well for herself as Cecily in Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. It put her on the theatrical map as someone to keep a favorable eye on. Men pursued her shamelessly, and just as shamelessly she encouraged them. She was very wise, however, to concentrate most of her encouragement on Ogden. He was very, very wealthy and, in his way, rather attractive. Max knew Ogden, as I’ve already told you, and he asked me to have the couple around to Sunday dinner. Well, Nydia and I took to each other immediately. She had learned I was interested in amateur theatricals and she knew I’d had some success with my plays, and of course I’m sure it occurred to her I’d be writing others and there might be one with a part suitable for her. She invited us to see her in Eumcst, and she was really quite good.” She said to Cayman, “I usually dread seeing a friend in a play, because if they're not very good, what do you say to them when you go backstage afterwards? Dear Estelle Winwood went to see Gladys Cooper in something perfectly awful and almost went berserk wracking her brain for something complimentary. When she got to her dressing room Gladys trumpeted, ‘Well? What did you think?’ Estelle looked at Gladys and was inspired to say, ‘My dear, throughout the play I kept wishing you were sitting beside me.’ In Nydia’s case, I could tell her quite happily that she was a very gifted young actress. When Ogden asked her to marry him, Nydia did come to me for advice. He wanted her to give up acting. A tough decision for what you would call a hot young property to make. She was truly torn. Her profession or Ogden’s millions.”

  “Not Ogden the man?” asked Bette.

  “I'm with you. Bette. I prefer to think she considered the man before she considered the millions.”

  “You advised her to marry him, I take it.”

  “In a way I did. I told her, or rather reminded her, that she wouldn’t be young forever. And money never ages.”

  “Good for you! And so they were married.” Bette smiled at Cayman. Her glass was empty again, and it needed refilling, as did her heart. She knew he could refill her glass, but in the matter of the heart, his credentials were questionable.

  “Indeed, they were married and to all intents and purposes lived happily ever after.” She said to Bette, “You believe in happy endings?”

  Bette replied with an edge to her voice, “When I want a happy ending, I go to a funeral.”

  Agatha chuckled. “Ogden died much too soon. Still a young man. And now spiritualism had entered Nydia’s world and in its way filled the void I think she suffered after abandoning her career. There were Mabel’s weekly salons.”

  Bette asked as Cayman, stifling a yawn, did the honors with the liquor again, “That’s where she met Virgil?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And they were attracted to each other?”

  “I would be more apt to say Virgil was attracted to Nydia. Nydia was a faithful wife, Bette. She really cared for Ogden, and of course Ogden was absolutely dotty about her.” She went quiet, as though wondering if she should share any further information.

  Cayman said, “This sudden quiet is deafening.”

  “While hearing myself talk. I found my thoughts wandering in another direction.”

  “Come on, Agatha. Don’t hold out. It might help the inspector formulate some answers. It's late, and I’m sure he’s got a lot on his plate in the morning.”

  “Virgil suddenly appeared at Nydia’s door to kindly see if she needed any help with coping. Funeral arrangements, all that. Nydia has no family. She’s very alone. And was even more alone in Cadogan Square now that Ogden was laid out elsewhere, in the mortuary. Max and I of course pitched in. Nydia made overuse of my shoulder and seemed never to stop crying. And in the face of a woman’s tears Max becomes paralyzed. So Virgil took charge, and, I must say, most impressively. In no time at all. he had the husband consigned to the family vault. He had notified Ogden’s solicitor, and Nydia learned she was Ogden’s sole heir, with wealth she had never imagined possessing. I mean that Ogden’s wealth could have been spelled out in neon lights. I might add, she has invested very wisely, thanks to my broker.”

  “So now begins the romance between Nydia and Virgil,” said Cayman.

  Bette said, “I have a feeling we could now use some orchestral accompaniment.”

  “Theirs was a rough beginning,” said Agatha gravely. “In the first place, a woman so freshly widowed must exercise discretion in her relationships with the opposite sex or be doomed to a most distressing reputation. Nydia is no fool and was no fool. She was polite but for the most part kept Virgil at arm’s length. If they were to dine in public, I or someone else accompanied them. What went on in the privacy of Nydia’s apartment I cannot attest to.”

  “And you couldn’t care less,” added Bette.

  “Like hell I couldn't! I was dying to know what was going on. My dear, remember, I adore gossip and I’m only human. Full marks for myself that I didn’t press Nydia, though it pained me not to. But I sensed the growing intimacy and so did the Wynn women. Anthea behaved like a complete fool. Tantrums. Threats. She was too terrible. I got all this second-hand from Sir Roland, who, contrary to his insistence that he loved all his children, was bored senseless by them, though not so much by Virgil. At least with him he could share a mummy or two over a glass of port at the Club.”

  “And how did Mabel behave?” Bette’s voice was growing hoarse. Scotch whisky and cigarettes were beginning to take their toll.

  “Mabel was a bit subtler than Anthea, which wasn’t difficult, as, in my experience, Anthea has never been subtle. What Mabel did was cruel. She cut Nydia from her guest list. Her excuse was she had a plethora of single women. Nydia seemed not to mind. She spent most Sundays with us. I never accepted Mabel’s invitations, much to Max’s joy. He couldn’t stand her.”

  Bette asked, “What were your thoughts when Mabel died?

  “‘Toodle-oo, dearie. Have a nice trip.’” The three blended into laughter. “Oh, aren’t I awful! I had nothing against Mabel. I just thought she was a silly, rich woman given to dropping names all over the place. Though I gather she did set a good table.”

  “Did you know she was terminally ill?” asked Cayman.

  “I didn’t hear it directly from anyone. Though the salons went from one a week to one every two weeks and then to one a month, and then they evanesced. And then there was her obituary in the Times, with the explanation ‘death by misadventure.’ Isn’t that a divine expression, Bette? ‘Death by misadventure’!”

  “Oh, God, it must be the whisky! I thought ‘Adventure’ was some woman’s name! ‘Miss Adventure’!” They shared a laugh again.

  “How do they put it in America?” asked Agatha.

  “They come right out with it. Suicide by overdose or self-inflicted gunshot wound or she took a dive off the roof. We don’t pussyfoot around with those things. And I suppose because no foul play was suspected, there was no autopsy.”

  “Not that I know of,” replied Agatha. “Of course the inspector could find out if he were so inclined.”

  “I doubt if there was an autopsy. And I’m not about to look into having her body exhumed until I can prove for sure that she met with foul play. And that could be very, very tricky this late in the game.”

  “Friends,” said Bette, a faraway look in her eyes, “I wonder if Nellie Mamby knew what was going on.” She snapped her finger. “I’ll bet you she knew and knows a hell of a lot more than she’s willing to admit.”

  “Or ever will admit.” said Agatha.

  “She wasn’t very happy with the seance,” said Betty. “All that heavy breathing of hers, I daresay, was hardly due to any bubbling passion. Agatha, was she fond of Mabel?”

  “I would say she was. She lasted a long time in her employ.

  And she continued as part of the household. Because of the salons, Mamby was practically a celebrity in her own right. She was deared and darlinged to near-paralyzation by a lot of Mabel’s celebrities. Noel Coward invited her to a matinee of Cavalcade, and Sir Thomas Beecham asked her to the Albert Hall on at least two occasions I heard about.”

  Bette asked eagerly, “Could there have been any hanky-panky?”

  “With Noel? I’m sure that if there were, he wasn’t aware of it. As for Thomas … Oh, really, Bette. You’ve seen Mamby! How could you even suggest hanky-panky and Mamby in the same breath?”

  Bette was on her feet and pacing, semaphoring no one in particular with her overactive hand holding its smoking cigarette. “Agatha, for a woman of the world you astonish me with your naivete.”

  Agatha said firmly, “I am not a woman of the world and have never professed to be. I admit to being naive about a great many things, but to picture Mamby as the object of anybody’s passion is like asking me to insist the moon is made of green cheese.”

  “Ladies! Lower your voices!” cautioned Cayman. “She might hear you and come flying in to her own defense!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bette, emphasizing her words with a dismissing gesture of her hand. “She's all the way in the back of the house dead asleep and probably uttering unappetizing little wheezes. Agatha, you wouldn’t believe the physiognomies of some of the wives and husbands of our stars. I mean, look at Jean Harlow!”

  “Oh, I so enjoy looking at Jean Harlow,” said Cayman enthusiastically.

  “Her second husband, Paul Bern, the one who supposedly committed suicide, was hardly an Adonis. He looked like a pants presser! Paul Muni’s wife is a sweet pain the backside, but she’d never stop traffic unless she were in an accident. The man I just dismissed from my life is attractive enough but not in his BVDs. Agatha, one can never predict what people will go for in the opposite sex.”

  “Bette,” said Cayman.

  “Yes?”

  “The door is chiming.”

  “So it is. Maybe it’s Nydia coming back, having caught a second wind!”

  Cayman said, “I prefer to think it’s Nayland come to fetch me.”

  “Oh. of course. I’d forgotten Nayland.” She hurried out. “Nayland’s quite a nice chap. Not all that memorable, but at the same time not all that forgettable. He’s awfully good at his job, but I never tell him, as it might spoil him.”

  “She’s quite clever, isn’t she?”

  “You mean Bette?”

  “I don’t mean Marie of Rumania.”

  “She’s got quite a head on her shoulders. I admire the interior as much as I do the exterior.”

  “How lucky you are. Having it both ways.”

  “I haven’t had it any way, as yet.”

  “I suppose you’re also wondering what she was after, implicating Nellie Mamby.”

  “Oh? Do you consider that implicating? I suppose you could, couldn't you? Right now I’m too tired. I’ll give it some thought tomorrow.”

  “It’s already tomorrow,” said Bette as she returned, followed by Nayland.

  “Poor chap,” said Cayman to Nayland. “You look all in.”

  “Well, sir, it was quite a trip!”

  “He could use a whisky!” exclaimed Bette.

  “Dear girl,” said Agatha, “I believe we’ve all had more than enough to drink for one evening!”

  “Oh, look at poor Mr. Nayland. I can tell he’s feeling deprived.” Cayman wearily went to the liquor cabinet and poured four drinks. He had looked at his wristwatch, and it was almost midnight. His first interrogation was Nellie Mamby at nine o’clock. And then the other suspects at two-hour intervals. And then there was the knife that had been plunged into the back of Virgil’s mouth. That had to be found, though he was sure it was clean of any fingerprints. He’d need a description of the weapon from Sir Roland.

  “Inspector,” cried Bette, rousing Cayman from his momentary reverie, “you’ve got to hear this!”

  “Coming,” he replied, placing the four drinks on a tray and walking slowly as he did a balancing act. “Much ado about something in the car, Nayland? I did hope there would be, which is why I didn't want Mrs. Mallowan to phone for a taxi.”

  “I suspected you were up to something. Don’t think you put anything over on me!” said Bette.

  “I wasn’t trying to put anything over on you. I was trying to put something over on them.” He distributed the drinks. “It was a long shot. I thought there was the danger they’d be more cautious with a detective at the wheel. I had a strong feeling that if I could get Nydia cornered by the Wynns there’d be a great kerfuffle about the seance.”

  “Indeed there was,” said Nayland, taking a healthy swig from his glass and then suddenly glowing as the alcohol charged through his veins.

  “Come on, Nayland.” coaxed Cayman. “Let’s hear it.”

 

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