“Anthea Wynn started it. Much whining and weeping about Virgil and who could have been feeding him the poison, followed by Oscar wondering who stabbed Virgil, followed by Sir Roland calling Nydia an unmitigated bitch. And how dare she imply the family had acted in concert, with that bit about ‘There’s safety in numbers.’ Nydia herself had an axe to grind where Virgil was concerned. Something about him giving Nydia bad advice on some investments.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Agatha. “I’ve told you. Nydia is looked after by my broker, and he’s the ace of spades. And why would Virgil give anyone any tips on the stock market? He knew nothing about the market. Mabel was a whiz at investments. She always had tips. She was always soliciting them and getting them. And besides, if for some unbelievable reason it’s true, if Nydia lost anything in the market, unless it was a million or so, she would have plenty left. And by plenty, I mean she’s loaded. I know she has a safety-deposit box that is an El Dorado of expensive jewelry.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mallowan, but I’m only repeating what I overheard,” said Nayland, wondering if he dared do an Oliver Twist and ask for more whisky.

  “Of course you are. And quite admirably. Inspector, he is indeed quite good at his job. Please go on, Mr. Nayland.” Agatha was beaming.

  “Mrs. Tilson then gave the three of them what for. Calling them ungrateful wretches. Saying how often she had interceded with brother Virgil to increase their allowances, and”—he hesitated, and Cayman prodded him to continue— “now that Virgil’s dead and they come into the money, will Anthea remember to repay the debts she owes Mrs. Tilson?” Agatha said brightly, “How nice of Nydia. I never knew she was helping Anthea financially.”

  “She was helping all of them financially,” said Nayland. “She ticked the other two off in turn, by which time we were at her house and she got out of the car, thanked me very much, and then slammed the door and marched off in what I suppose was a huff.”

  “What did the others say when they were left to themselves?” urged Cayman.

  Nayland exhaled. “They weren’t very kind about Mrs. Tilson.”

  “No discussion of Virgil Wynn’s murder?” asked Cayman. “Only that Anthea Wynn asked her father how soon the will was to be read. And he said, ‘As soon as is decently possible.’ And then I dropped him off. I must say, he sounded a bit curt with his good nights, but he was quite civil to me.

  In fact, he reached into his pocket, presumably for a coin, but I told him quickly that Scotland Yard was quite generous.”

  Cayman groaned. “Nayland, you bloody liar. That’s the sort of thing that could get around and then we’ll never see a rise in pay.”

  Bette asked greedily, “Anthea and Oscar. What went on after you dumped their father?”

  “It’s rather interesting. Anthea started to say something about the servant …”

  “Mamby,” said Bette.

  “But through the rearview mirror I could see her brother point a finger at me by way of cautioning her to shut up. So, I suppose for want of anything better to do, she started crying again. I suppose it’s not my place to say, but I found her a bit tiresome.”

  “Well,” said Cayman, “I shall try to do better with today’s interrogations. And now I insist we depart and that Bette go up to bed. Mrs. Mallowan, may I have the pleasure of seeing you home?”

  “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. There’s a gate in the fence in the back garden and I’ll be in my home before you can say, ‘Bob’s your uncle.’” She told Bette she’d phone around ten and left through the French window. Bette saw the policemen to the front door and promised Cayman she’d really get a good night’s rest. She knew she needed it. A few minutes later, after dousing the lights in the drawing room, she slowly made her way upstairs, deep in thought.

  In the garden, Agatha noticed a light beaming under a curtain from what she knew was Nellie Mamby's room. Perhaps Mamby had fallen asleep leaving the light on. Agatha continued on to her house as the hated fog was closing in on her. There was so much for her to think about.

  Within a few minutes, Agatha was seated in her kitchen warming her feet at the electric fire and munching an apple. She was occupied with thinking about Nydia. Still waters were supposed to run deep, but this couldn’t pertain to Nydia, as Nydia was rarely ever still. Her personality could be overpowering and there were times when she knew how to play the shrinking violet. Agatha had seen how well she could underplay as an actress. Agatha recalled Nydia telling her that Edith Evans had advised her, ‘Less is more.’ But as a spiritualist, Nydia could come close to giving her hand away; Agatha thought she had done so tonight by advising, ‘There's safety in numbers.’

  Hid all the Wynns so loathe Virgil that they united to murder him? Which one of them had read up on poisons? Why, damn it all, one or the other of them were always poking about in my library. And I certainly have the best books on poison! She put the apple aside and pondered. Would that make me an accessory to the crime? Inspector Cayman likes me. Should the matter come up. I'm sure he’ll be a dear and turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to it.

  The subject of Nellie Mamby pushed thoughts of the Wynns aside with little effort. Agatha never had liked the housekeeper and she was a dreadful cook. All that boiled mutton and those overcooked vegetables, not to mention her unspeakable and inedible fruit tarts. Nellie had had, at one time or another, the ear of each member of the family, Mabel for sure and probably Anthea too. Anthca was always unburdening herself of things that mostly didn’t require unburdening. If only her mind were as sharp as her features. Blank mind, hence blank verse. Had the fates been conspiring against Mabel and Roland, saddling them with those three unfortunate children? Perhaps ‘unfortunate’ was the wrong adjective for Virgil. He at least acquired fame and wealth, both of which, unfortunately, were no longer of any use to him.

  Who gets the money? The house and grounds? The artifacts? And had he remembered Nydia for old times’ sake? Or. she now wondered, did he too owe Nydia? Her thoughts deepened and she began to feel that those thoughts were getting her in deep over her head. Could Nydia possibly be in secret possession of a portion of the contraband artifacts? Agatha knew of one safety-deposit box, because she’d been with Nydia when Nydia needed a certain necklace. Nydia could be renting others if necessary, an entire bank of them. The officer in charge of the vault at the bank had fallen all over himself at the sight of her.

  Wearily, Agatha raised herself from the chair and stretched. She turned off the electric fire and wended her way upstairs to her bedroom. Her windows faced those of what was now Bette’s suite. Strange. Her lights are still on. Probably too keyed up from the night’s activities. Her adrenaline must be pumping away.

  Bette’s adrenaline was indeed pumping away. She had heard a door slam downstairs as she was about to undress. She ran into the hall and cried out, “Who’s there? Mamby, is that you?” Receiving no reply, she hurried back into her suite and grabbed a poker from the fireplace. With a good grip on it, she went back to the hall, found the switch that controlled both the upper and lower halls, and flooded them with light. Slowly she decended the stairs. She could see a light near the kitchen door. But it was a reflection from the basement. The basement door was ajar and the lights were on. Bette pulled the door wider.

  “Who’s down there?”

  She considered going to Mamby's room and rousing her. After all, “There’s safety in numbers.” Bette called out again, “Whoever’s down there, I’ve got a gun. Come up with your hands raised above your head! I’ll count to three. One! Two! Three!” No one appeared. Oh, the hell with it, thought Bette. We Warner Brothers leading ladies are made of sterner stuff. Slowly she made her way down the basement stairs. At this hour of the night, some of the statuary took on a look of scary menace. But Bette didn’t turn tail and hurry back up. She continued descending until she was standing just a few feet away from one of the mummies. She stood stock still and listened. She heard nothing. She advanced a few feet farther into the basement, the poker held high over her head, poised to strike.

  She thought, There may be no one down here now, but someone has been here. Some items she remembered as having been neatly placed had been moved. She continued moving slowly. Just ahead was the shallow grave.

  A hand protruded from the grave. A human hand. A woman’s hand. Bette’s heart was beating wildly. She craved a cigarette. She moved like a sleepwalker. She stared into the grave. The body had a knife plunged into its heart, an ancient relic.

  Bette would never forget the look of horror on Nellie Mamby’s twisted face. Bette did what was appropriate. She screamed.

  10

  AGATHA RESPONDED TO BETTE’S CRIES OF HELP from the French window in the drawing room like a beagle sent to retrieve a grouse. She had not yet undressed, so she was at Bette’s side in almost no time at all. Bette still clutched the poker as she drew Agatha into the house. “She’s in the basement. She’s been stabbed in the chest. Mamby’s been murdered.” Agatha said nothing. She hurried to the basement, Bette in her wake. In the basement, Agatha stared at Mamby’s face and then at the weapon protruding from her chest.

  “Looks like the same one that stabbed Virgil. It had been on his desk. Remember? It was used as a paper cutter. Well, we weren’t wrong about the murderer hiding the weapon down here. The killer knew exactly where to find it. We must go back up and phone the inspector. I’m sure Nayland drove them back to Scotland Yard.”

  Agatha was right. Cayman rounded up the coroner and four detectives on night duty, and they made tracks hastily back to the scene of the crimes. “Poor Miss Davis,” commented Nayland, his tires screeching as they rounded a corner. “She’s having quite an initiation into the Wynn house.”

  “I’m sure she’s enjoying every moment of the melodrama.” Tires screeched again. “There’s a good chap. Nayland. Taking us hell bent for leather isn’t all that necessary. Nellie Mamby’s not going anyplace.” He said to Angus MacDougal, the coroner, who sat in the back with two detectives, “Fortunate you were working late tonight.”

  MacDougal said through slightly clenched teeth, “Fortunate my Aunt Tootsie. The corpses are stacking up. There’s an epidemic of homicides and I’m short of staff. I wish you’d put in a word with the chief that I could use a few extra hands. I mean, after all, the chef at Fouquet’s has a sous-chef and a salade-chef.”

  Cayman asked, “Why in the world do you need chefs?”

  “Oh, Howard, don’t be so dense!” snapped MacDougal. Lloyd Nayland said, “I hope Miss Davis is well stocked with whisky. I sense a long night ahead.”

  Cayman sighed and said, “I’ll be able to sleep an extra hour or so later. My first appointment has just been canceled.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if I might be an incipient alcoholic,” said Bette from the sofa in the drawing room as Agatha refilled their glasses. She poured with a generous hand. She knew she herself could never be an alcoholic. She had too healthy an appetite, and alcoholics eat very little. She told Bette as much and Bette agreed.

  “I never stop eating,” admitted Bette. “It’s nerves.”

  “My dear, yours are made of steel.” She gave Bette a glass and held tightly to her own. “What bravery! Investigating the basement on your own! The killer might still have been down there!”

  “I did have the poker with which to defend myself. Oh, God! That look on Mamby’s face.”

  “Not terribly pleasant at all, considering she was homely to begin with.”

  “Her sister should be notified. The one she said she visited.”

  “All in good time. You poor dear. All this on your first day in the house! Two corpses!”

  Bette said with irony, “My cup runneth over. And what’s worse, to lose my housekeeper!”

  “You’ll have no trouble finding another,” comforted Agatha. “I’ll phone an agency in the morning, and within an hour you’ll have a dozen lined up in the street waiting to be interviewed. This dreadful depression.”

  “Right. Will it never end?”

  “What we need is a gigantic international conflagration. Wars always end depressions. Even though they’re so depressing.”

  “Do you think there’s a war on the horizon?”

  “I’m afraid so. There are several saber rattlers on the Continent thirsting for power.” Her head shot up. “Ah! Do you hear it? My favorite melody. A police siren!”

  “Having phoned the others, do you suppose they'll be converging on the house?” Bette had little appetite for the Wynn family again. What experience she had earlier had of them had left a sour taste. Agatha didn’t tell her there was one member of the family she hadn’t reached or else who was not answering the phone because of the hour. Agatha had let it ring extendedly before giving up.

  “If only to show their concern about Mamby’s death. After all, she was like one of the family. Greedy.”

  “Oh, Agatha,” chuckled Bette. “Is greed known to be contagious?”

  “In my experience, most certainly. Look at my country. Gobbling up countries all over the world and strange little islands. Whatever the hell do we need with Bermuda?” The siren was drawing closer. “And what about your greedy American robber barons? And those munitions people in Europe? Greed is a dreadful disease.”

  “You're not greedy.”

  “I don’t have to be. I’m very successful. I earn a lot of money, so there’s no need for me to be envious or covetous.”

  “Well, I’m not greedy. I just want what’s rightfully mine, especially some really good and meaty parts. You know, I think all this would make a perfectly swell movie.”

  “All what?”

  “The murders. Here in the house.”

  “And what part would you play?”

  “Nydia, of course! It's the meatiest. The showiest.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Bette didn't hear her. She was hurrying to answer the door. Agatha stared into her glass, but it was a poor substitute for a crystal ball. Virgil dead. Mamby dead. Who else, she wondered, needed to be eliminated? Perhaps no one else. She wasn’t too sure, and this troubled her. She pulled herself together and smiled as Bette returned with Cayman and Nayland in tow.

  “I sent Mr. MacDougal down to the basement.” Bette announced gaily. “No need to dawdle and waste time. Right, Inspector?”

  “Young woman,” he said sternly, “this may be your house—”

  “Borrowed,” interjected Bette.

  “—but it’s my investigation. Nayland, have a look round in the basement. There’s plenty of dust down there. There might be fingerprints. Certainly footprints.”

  As Nayland hurried out. cursing Cayman for his haste, which was losing Nayland a glass of liquor, Bette said to Cayman, “You mustn’t be cross with me. I too could have been murdered.”

  Cayman considered that and agreed. “Except that I’m of the opinion that you’re not so easily disposed of.”

  “My dear Inspector,” said Bette, pouring him a drink while ignoring his protestation that he couldn’t drink while on a case, “I’m the one who usually does the disposing. And forget about your archaic rules. You need a drink to steady your nerves.”

  “My nerves do not need steadying. They need a rest.” He accepted the glass from Bette with gratitude. “Now, tell me what happened.” He waited while she lit a cigarette.

  She spoke succinctly and with easy clarity, clipping her words as was her wont, flailing her hands, pacing the floor, and overdramatizing at every opportunity, starting with hearing the door slam.

  “Which door?” asked Cayman.

  “How should I know?” replied Bette with a shrug of annoyance at being interrupted. “I was upstairs and the noise came from downstairs, and I'm not psychic. I would assume it was the front door, the killer making tracks out of here. Or maybe a door was slammed to attract my attention. Shall I continue, or do you prefer to continue dwelling on doors being slammed?”

  “Sorry if I interrupt you from time to time, but it's part of my job.”

  “It’s quite all right. I’m a movie star. I'm quite used to short takes. But next time you interrupt, try yelling, ‘Cut.’ I’m quite used to that and it’s less unnerving. Where was I?”

  “Door slammed,” said Agatha, sounding slightly bored.

  “I shouted, ‘Who’s there,’ and got no reply. Then I yelled Mamby’s name and got no reply. We now understand why. This I was doing from the hall outside my suite. I ran back and got a poker from the fireplace.”

  “Very wise,” said Cayman.

  “You didn’t say. ‘Cut,’” said Bette sternly.

  “Oops. Sorry.” He winked at Agatha

  “I descended with caution and thought there was a light coming from the kitchen, perhaps Mamby warming up some milk because she couldn’t sleep. Well, I was quite wrong. It was coming from the basement, the door being ajar.” She was facing away from them and paused, spun around, hands on her hips, and said defiantly, “I wasn’t afraid, believe me I wasn’t. I got terribly dramatic and shouted down to the basement that whoever was down there had better come up with their hands above their heads, as I had a gun.”

  “Cut. Good show.”

  “Oh, thank you. Inspector. I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

  Cayman realized he was at a Mexican standoff and decided to hold his tongue until she declared she had nothing further to tell him. He folded his arms, crossed his legs, and sat hack, while willing himself not to fall asleep.

  “So I decided. The hell with it. I’ll go down and have a look around. So down I went, and I will admit, even though the lights were on, that it was very, very spooky. I did notice that a few things I had remarked about earlier had been moved.”

  “Cut. As though someone might have been there to perhaps remove them.”

  “Very definitely. Agatha. You’re very quiet.”

  “The spotlight is on you, dear. I’m busy absorbing everyone of your words.”

  “Anyway, I could now see the shallow grave and I saw a hand sticking our. I recognized that it was a woman’s hand. I suppose I should have gotten the hell out of there right then and there, but I was hypnotized. I wasn’t sure at first who it was.”

 

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