Fran made sure that she was lurking in the High Street well in advance of Mademoiselle Bertillon’s anticipated arrival. The good weather had persisted, so all the shops had their awnings extended, providing welcome oases of shade across the pavement. She drifted from shop window to shop window, keeping a lookout for the governess while pretending to study the displays. At the stationer’s, she spent such a long time peering into the window that the proprietor came out on to the pavement in anticipation of making a sale and Fran had to feign interest in a box of sketching pencils, only extricating herself by saying she would have to think about it and come back later.
From time to time she covertly glanced at her wristwatch, not wanting to be marked down as obviously waiting to meet someone. By twenty-five to eleven she had examined the wares displayed in the windows of every establishment and was just wondering whether to repeat the exercise in the opposite direction when she saw the neat, slender figure of the French governess turn the corner and advance towards the shops. Fran noted the way other passers-by turned their heads and stared – not, she was sure, in admiration of the governess’s perfect deportment, but out of curiosity because of the sensation and scandal that had enveloped the Ripley household. As predicted by Aunt Het, Mademoiselle Bertillon made for Fulchers, the butchers. Once her quarry was inside, Fran strolled towards the butcher’s shop at a leisurely pace, pausing when she reached the premises next door, where the rows of iced buns set out on paper-lined shelves in the window were already looking decidedly sticky in the heat.
There must have been a queue inside the shop, because by the time Mademoiselle Bertillon emerged Fran had had time to count each type of confectionary on display, the number of stripes on the red-and-white awning of the butcher’s shop, and the rows of cobblestones between the drain covers in either direction. As soon as she saw the governess’s reflection in the angle of the shop window, however, she immediately began to move forward again, so that it would not appear as if she had been waiting – and this resulted in a realistic-looking near-collision alongside an A-board advertising brisket at special prices.
‘Oh, Mademoiselle Bertillon! I’m so sorry, I just wasn’t looking where I was going.’
‘It is no matter. Nothing is upset. How nice to see you again.’
‘And you too. Actually, it’s jolly fortunate, because I’m doing a couple of errands for Miss Venn and she has asked me to drop something at the home of Miss Grimes. She told me it was not far from Mr Ripley’s and I was confident of finding it, because we walked there when we came to luncheon with you on Saturday, but on that occasion we didn’t go via the High Street and I’m afraid I have rather lost my bearings.’
‘Oh, it is very easy to find. I can direct you, if you like – or if you would care to wait while I call at the haberdashery shop, then we can walk back together.’
Excellent, thought Fran. Exactly according to plan. Aloud, she said, ‘Oh, thank you, mademoiselle, that would be most kind.’
The errand at Miss Lumley’s Haberdashery took next to no time, as the special set of buttons ordered by Florence Ripley had not come in. ‘Miss Florence will not be pleased,’ Mademoiselle Bertillon remarked. ‘She is not a patient young lady.’
Fran could not help thinking that with the exhumation of her stepmother’s body on Monday, Miss Florence might have more troubling matters on her mind than a set of buttons, but she said nothing.
‘I am surprised to see you here again, Mrs Black,’ Mademoiselle Bertillon continued. ‘What brings you back to Durley Dean so soon?’
Although it was an obvious question, Fran had failed to anticipate it. Thrown momentarily off guard, she decided to take a gamble. ‘If I can rely on your discretion, mademoiselle, the truth is that Miss Venn asked myself and Mr Dod to come here because we have had a little bit of experience in solving unpleasant mysteries. Miss Venn told us that there had been a couple of unexpected deaths among her fellow parishioners at St Agnes’s, and now there’s this unhappy business of Mrs Ripley’s death too. Though it sounds a little strange, Miss Venn wondered if there might be some connection between the three cases.’
‘Me, I am a Catholic.’ The governess gave a Gallic shrug, which implied to Fran that strange goings-on were hardly to be wondered at in upstart offshoots like the Church of England. ‘Tell me, are you and Mr Dod – how would you say – the not-in-uniform policemen?’
‘Plainclothes police. Oh no, no. We are just, well, amateurs, but because of our success – well, sort of success – in the past, Miss Venn thought that we might be able to make some discreet enquiries … More to put her mind at rest than anything else.’
‘Ah, yes, we would all like someone to do that for us.’
‘It must be very difficult for Mr Ripley and the rest of the family at the moment,’ Fran prompted, hopefully.
‘Indeed yes. Difficult for everyone. Some very nasty policemen have been to the house, asking everyone questions. They have even searched Mrs Ripley’s bedroom. I told them that this would be of no use at all, because the room has been tidied out and cleaned many times since Mrs Ripley died.’ The governess sighed and shook her head. ‘They take absolutely no notice, these …’ she paused, perhaps searching for a word, ‘… great clodhoppers of men.’
‘What were they looking for?’
‘Who can tell? Poison, I think.’
The word hung in the air as they turned the corner and began to walk away from the High Street along a road lined with terraced houses.
‘But surely, Mrs Ripley’s death was due to natural causes?’
Mademoiselle Bertillon did not respond immediately. Fran sensed that she was struggling with the question, perhaps not for the first time.
‘It was said so, of course. It was a shock to everyone at the time because it was not expected that Mrs Ripley should die, but these things happen …’
‘But I thought – that is, when Miss Venn told us about it – that Mrs Ripley had been ill for some time?’
This time there was no hesitation. Fran got the distinct impression that the governess found it a relief to talk to someone beyond the immediate family circle about her late mistress’s death.
‘The circumstances are a little more complicated than that. For as long as I have worked for the family, Mrs Ripley had always enjoyed poor health. You understand what I mean by this, Mrs Black? A great many ladies in her position … they take to their bed and a lot of fuss is made. My own mother – a true lady – did not have time for such trivial ailments …
‘Of course,’ Mademoiselle Bertillon added hastily, ‘after Mrs Ripley died, I felt much remorse that I had ever suspected her of … magnifying her illness in order to gain her husband’s attention. Her “weak constitution”, she used to call it. No doubt you think badly of me for having such thoughts?’
‘On the contrary,’ Fran assured her companion. ‘I have an aunt who is exactly the same. She uses her health to manipulate everyone, but I have always suspected there is nothing particularly wrong with her and that in fact she will probably outlive us all.’
‘Mrs Ripley, poor lady, did not outlive us all.’
‘But you were surprised when she died?’
‘I was.’
‘It can’t have been all that sudden. I mean, there was no inquest, was there? And there has to be an inquest if someone dies and it’s completely unexpected.’
‘Expected? Unexpected? It’s difficult to say. It all began the day of the luncheon party for Mr and Mrs Craig. The Craigs were old friends of Mr Ripley from many years ago who were visiting the neighbourhood and had come for lunch with Mr and Mrs Ripley. Miss Florence and I were also there, but Master Geoffrey was away at school, so six of us sat down.’
‘Everyone ate the same things?’
‘Of course. We had vegetable soup, roast lamb with mashed potatoes and peas and naturally mint sauce and gravy. I did not have the mint sauce, as it is so vinegary.’
‘But everyone else did?’
‘Of course. The English must have their mint sauce. For dessert there was rhubarb tart and custard. Soon after lunch, Mrs Ripley complained of feeling unwell. She had only eaten the same as everyone else, but she had to go and lie down and Doctor Owen was called in. Doctor Owen diagnosed what he described as “her usual gastric trouble”, prescribed her some medicine, and said he would call again the next day if she was no better.’
‘Was everyone terribly worried?’
‘Not at all. Myself, I had noticed that Mrs Ripley had not much enjoyed the lunch party. She did not really know the Craigs, you see. They kept talking with Mr Ripley about things that had happened when the first Mrs Ripley was alive, and even things which had taken place before that.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Oh, nothing very much. Mr Craig and Mr Ripley had been boys together. It was all “You remember when old So-and-so made a lot of runs for the cricket team …” Nothing upsetting, you understand, but it did not concern Mrs Ripley, so she could take no part in the conversation. Miss Florence was also bored by it all.’
‘And you?’
‘It is not my job to be bored.’
‘So you think Mrs Ripley may have pretended to be ill in order to regain the centre of attention?’
‘I never said so. It is … possible that she exaggerated a little. Yes … I admit, I thought that at the time.’
‘But not now?’
‘Mrs Ripley is dead, is she not? Who knows what to think now?’
‘And Mr Ripley was anxious enough to send for the doctor?’
‘Mr Ripley always did whatever his wife asked in these situations. Mrs Ripley was inclined to call Doctor Owen out for any kind of trivial complaint. Her husband could afford it, so naturally Doctor Owen always came.’
‘But this time it turned out not to be trivial?’
‘I did not think it was anything serious. Mrs Ripley took to her bedroom. During the daytime she lay on her chaise longue, in her dressing gown, and carried on taking her usual medicine, and Doctor Owen popped in to see her the next day and the day after that, but on the third day after she was taken ill he had to attend a lady who was … confined, I believe you would say, and in his absence Mrs Ripley became very ill and went into a state of collapse. Mr Ripley was still at the bank, so I telephoned for Doctor Owen, saying that it was urgent, but he did not come immediately and only arrived just a minute or so after Mrs Ripley died. He attempted to revive her – but it was no use, she had gone.’
‘So it was not really an expected death?’
‘Doctor Owen said he would be able to issue the certificate of death because he had been treating Mrs Ripley for many years, so he knew that she had a weakened heart and could have died at any time.’
Fran nodded. ‘It’s the sort of thing any good family doctor would do. No one wants the nuisance of an inquest.’
‘Going to this coroner’s court, getting the family’s name into the papers. That sort of thing is not respectable,’ the governess agreed.
‘Well, in cases of sudden death one can’t always avoid it, but a good GP will help the family by issuing a certificate whenever he can. Tell me,’ Fran continued, a little hurriedly, for the distinctive chimneys of the bank manager’s house had come into view above the hedge, ‘why have the police suddenly become suspicious?’
‘According to Mr Ripley, someone has been sending anonymous letters to the chief constable alleging foul play.’
‘Goodness, why on earth would anyone do that?’
‘A bank manager has enemies. There are people to whom he has refused credit or loans. It is said in the village that a Mr Pascoe, whose business failed, has sworn to take revenge on Mr Ripley … But of course there are many stories in the village now. The cook or the maid arrives back with a new one every day.’
Mademoiselle Bertillon stopped. They had reached the front gate of Mr Ripley’s house. ‘Here I am,’ she said. ‘If you continue walking to the end of the road, then turn left, you will come to Miss Grimes’s house in just a few yards. I am sure you will find your way back to Miss Venn’s without a problem. I think our meeting today was no accident?’
She gave Fran a shrewd smile, before opening the garden gate and walking up the path.