She emerged from the Peckham Rye Station in a thoroughfare noisy with trams, lorries, and motor-cycles, found the chemist’s shop, and turning the corner, saw the sign: “G. Petty, Corn and Feed.” Threading her way between sacks of dog biscuits and dusty-smelling oats, she entered a dark, empty shop and rapped on the counter.
A glazed door opened and a youngish man dressed in a baggy brown suit and a clean but ill-fitting collar came out. She asked if he was G. Petty. He nodded and gave her a curious glance.
“I’m Miss Lake, and I’d like to speak to your aunt. I know she’s here, because I’ve just seen her, in there. Will you tell her I’m here?”
G. Petty’s expression subtly altered.
“Right you are, miss. She’s just having her tea.”
He reopened the door and went through. She heard him say, “Now, don’t upset yourself, Ma. Nothink to hurt you. Ivy, will you just give an eye to the shop?”
A young woman with coarse, dark hair and a purple knitted jumper came out wiping her mouth. G. Petty whispered to Diana that the old party was not quite herself, what with all the excitement, and would she make allowances?
“Poor old thing! She won’t mind me. Why, she’s known me all my life.”
In spite of this assurance Diana saw the nephew had no intention of allowing a tête-à-tête. When the old servant had risen with a quavering smile he took his stand, awkward but stolid, near the small, red glowing stove. His wife called to him reproachfully: “George! Aren’t you asking the young lady if she’ll have a cup of tea?” Whereupon the omission was repaired with such thoroughness that Diana found herself unable to refuse the proffered hospitality. Strong Indian brew was pressed upon her, Petty with palsied haste handed her Genoa cake tasting strangely of cardboard and soap.
“Well, well!” The old woman prattled breathlessly. “Fancy you coming here, Miss Di! You could ’ave knocked me over with a feather, so you could.”
She was a frail, brittle little creature, very respectable in her decent black, her waxed pink skin drawn taut over her sharp face-bones, her scalp glistening frostily through her sparse white hairs. On a chair lay her hat, with a knot of battered roses at the side—so she had but lately arrived. She still indeed wore her coat, shabby, but handsome, the one Rose had given her years ago, but with the baby lamb collar removed; yet, though the room was oven-hot, she was shaking like a leaf.
“Do sit down, Petty, dear. I can see you’re tired. Gaylord told me where I’d find you, and I wanted to make sure you were all right. You see, the caretaker seemed surprised you hadn’t said good-bye.”
Stammering, Petty looked beseechingly at George.
“I told you so, didn’t I, Ma?” he remarked. “You see, miss”—to Diana—“Auntie’s got all of a dither, what with being by herself and—” He hesitated. “Having the police on to her night and day over this here death. But for the gentleman below looking after her so thoughtful-like she’d have hopped it before now—though I kept telling her not to do nothing silly. ’Twasn’t her they was after.”
“Oh, Mr. Blundell’s bin ever so good!” babbled Petty hastily. “I wouldn’t want to worry him, troubled as he is. I—I did write him, didn’t I, George?”
“Posted the letter as we come along,” confirmed George. “Only she’s had enough of Nosey Parkers—not mentioning names, of course.” In an undertone he confided: “If I hadn’t given in to her and sneaked her off quiet, she’d have gone to bits. Understand?”
Diana nodded, but was not satisfied. Suppose Petty’s eagerness to escape unobserved meant the guarding of a secret soon to be wrested from her? Somehow she must get rid of George—but how to accomplish it? Drinking her tea, she encouraged the timorous old creature to ramble on, which she did, mainly about her nephew. Yes, George was like her own son. Many’s the time, in the old days, he’d called for her at the theatre. Even as a little nipper he’d said he’d always look after his auntie.
“He will have it, miss, the thing’s blown over, like. It’s almost a week now, since—” A sudden horrified recollection sprang into her faded eyes. “Oh, Miss Di! And me forgetting your own poor mother! What must you be thinking?”
“Let’s not speak of her, Petty. I quite understand. As for the other—well, I’m afraid it hasn’t blown over. That’s what I wanted to break to you. Mrs. Somervell was poisoned.”
“Poi-poisoned?”
Wild-eyed, Petty had sprung up. Her false teeth rattled in her gasping mouth. Darting Diana a glance, George strode firmly to her.
“Easy, now, Ma. It’s nothink to do with you. There now! Like me to fetch a drop of brandy?”
“Do,” murmured Diana, snatching at the excuse. “She’ll be all right with me.”
When the door closed behind him, Diana took the gnarled hands in hers with a steady pressure.
“Petty, dear,” she said quietly; “don’t be frightened, will you? There’s something I must ask you while your nephew is out. Only this: What was Miss Dilworth saying to you in the kitchen the afternoon my mother called? I want to know that, and also why you denied any one was there.”
One swollen, arthritic hand struggled free to clap itself over an affrighted mouth.
“Oh!” whispered Petty. “So your mother did know?”
It was Elsie! The bluff had worked.
“She did,” lied Diana glibly; “and the details of it are terribly important. Oh, it is quite safe! Just trust me, won’t you? Now, why did Miss Dilworth come, and what did she want to find out?”
Rocking her frail body, Petty looked this way and that, and finally gave way.
“’Twasn’t the only time,” she moaned. “Miss Dilworth was on to me from the very day my lady died, trying to worm out I don’t rightly know what! Made me swear not to tell. Said as how it might mean trouble for me. Fair frightened me, she did, acting so queer.”
“Get you into trouble? And what business was it of hers?”
“Why, none at all, miss.” For the first time Petty seemed to take a sensible view and brightened accordingly. “She hated my lady—never took no pains to hide it. Making out I was put upon, hadn’t ought to work so hard at my age and all. Her, a working woman like myself!” The old voice trembled with scorn. “And wasn’t she in the dining-room ’anging about the very meal my lady was took bad? That she was—and rare vexed my lady was, to be sure!”
Now Petty’s tongue was loosened it was not difficult to get the whole story hitherto pent by unreasoning fright. On the given afternoon the secretary had once more slipped upstairs to prod Petty with her mysterious questions. What sort of questions? Oh, all to do with the illness. How soon after lunch had Mrs. Somervell fallen down in a faint? Had she, before she telephoned, mentioned any especial sensation, and if so, how had she described it? Did she vomit? What had there been for lunch? Anything that could have disguised a strange taste? What had the police said on these matters? Oh, Miss Dilworth knew all about the police visits. Not much went on she didn’t know.
“Did she go back at once?” interrupted Diana. “Or wait in the passage till my mother had gone?”
“She didn’t come in again, miss, but she may have stuck in the passage for a bit, hoping to hear more than I’d told her. ’Twould ’ave bin like her, worried as she was.”
“She was worried, you think?”
“Oh, Miss Di, she was fair highsterical! And the way she slid out, quick as a wink, when she heard your mother’s voice! I’d bare time to whip up the handkerchief she’d dropped to keep your mother from seeing it. That evening for something to do I rinsed it out and run the iron over it—and there it lays now, on the dresser, waiting for her to come and claim it.”
“I see. By the way, Petty, what was there for lunch that Sunday? I suppose there wasn’t any food that could have disguised a strong taste?”
“Only the horseradish, miss,” answered Petty so promptly that it was plain she had given the matter thorough consideration. “Made with whipped cream, it was, like my lady would have it; but horseradish is hot-flavoured—like nothink else, as you might say. Still, all of us ate it, so how could only her be poisoned?”
“Who served the meal?” asked Diana, waiving the question.
“Mr. Blundell carved, same as always, when he was there. I handed the plates and the vegetables, then the sauce and gravy. It was just the four people; if it ’ad bin more, we’d ’ave had extra help. There was the second helpings, though. Now, how was they managed?” Petty knit her waxen forehead. “Seems as how young Mr. Somervell got up and passed the two sauce-boats himself to—oh!” She broke off with a gasp. “Don’t think I mean nothink by that, Miss Di! It’s just that I remember him crossing the room and bumping into Miss Dilworth as she turned round quick-like from showing Mr. Blundell her bits of writing. I noticed, because of her going off into fits of giggling.”
Diana comforted her distress.
“There’s no reason why you should remember anything very clearly. The horseradish may have had nothing to do with it; but one other thing I’d like to ask. My mother told me Aunt Rose had grown very absent-minded. Did you notice it, too? And when did it begin?”
“She was growing forgetful, and no mistake! Why, she’d give me orders three times over! Sleepy, too. Said it was the dark days setting in. I’ve seen her doze off at breakfast with her tea half drunk. I used to slip in and make fresh for her; but I can’t rightly say when it started. Not long after we come home from France. Yes, about the time Mr. Adrian begun coming—or maybe before. I do know Mr. Blundell spoke to me about it—and he mentioned it again, to the doctor, the evening she died.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“Just nodded, like as though he’d expected it. The word he used was auto—auto—”
“Auto-intoxication?”
“That’s it. Called it a symptom, and said as how she’d never ought to touch the port. That was the trouble of them cures. She’d come home so ’earty she’d eat and drink whatever she fancied.”
The Vichy cure had been in September. Adrian had met Uncle Nick and paid his first call early in October. Better not go too closely into these dates. Indeed, much as she wanted to know, Diana decided not to probe any further into Petty’s unreliable memory. Besides, here was the nephew back again, doubtless from the corner pub, with two inches of brandy in a thick tumbler. He, at least, was alert—too much so, for Diana’s liking. She rose to go.
“She’s quite calm now, Mr. Petty. The little talk has done her good. Here’s my telephone number. Let me know if she wants anything, won’t you?”
“It’s very good of you, Miss.”
On the chaff-filled threshold George coughed meaningly.
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with her, Miss. It’s the hundred quid Mrs. Somervell left her. She cooked that lunch—and cleared away all the scraps. Some party—I’ll not say who—has fair put the wind up her. That’s why she’s come away.”
“Poor Petty!” murmured Diana compassionately. “Only a hundred pounds—and to be thrown in such a state! Why, no one, no one in their senses, would ever dream—”
“Now, would they?” interrupted George quickly. “No, I keep telling her it’s the big lump of property they’ll go for. It’s no concern of mine, but when a person that’s no blood relation turns up out of the sky and gets left a whole fortune two days before the party drops dead—well, I’ll say no more, but I dare say you get my meaning.”
She had got it, only too well. George Petty was voicing the opinion of the whole news-reading public. Of what use, she asked herself wretchedly, was her information about an hysterical, infatuated typist? All it proved at present was that Elsie Dilworth knew suspicion of murder had arisen and was in a fever of anxiety lest it point to the man she loved. Only one person—Diana herself—conceived the possibility of the woman’s terror springing from a personal cause. Was it worth while trying another bluff?
It was. With bold decision she entered a telephone booth and rang up her godfather’s flat. Blundell was not in. She asked for the secretary.
“Miss Dilworth, miss?” Gaylord was brisk, casual. “Miss Dilworth’s left.”
“Gone home, you mean?”
“No, miss, left off working for the master. Some days ago.”
“Oh!” Diana felt startled. “Do you know why she left?”
“Well, miss, we understand it’s a sort of breakdown. Nerves, you know—but I can’t rightly say.”
“But you have her address, I suppose?”
“No, miss, that we haven’t. She moved a matter of a few weeks ago, and where she’s been since we don’t none of us know.”
She hung up the receiver and moved slowly to the ticket office. In the train she remembered the two letters from Aunt Rose to her mother, all this time stuck in the back-flap of her bag. She got them out and read them through carefully. As she had expected, they were filled with tittle-tattle, grumblings over minor discomforts, gossip about fellow-visitors at Vichy. The writer had collected a new and delightful notable, one Sir Francis Dugdale, who was by way of being something very important at the Home Office, and she was preening herself over the capture. Such a fascinating man and, it seemed, one of her warmest admirers for years. When she got back, she must give a little luncheon party, have Sir Francis meet Nick. The two could jabber politics and finance to their heart’s content. It was the sort of thing Nick most enjoyed. Disappointed, Diana slid the thin sheets back into their envelopes. In all the dead woman’s tight firm scrawl, there was no mention of Adrian, indeed nothing whatsoever to shed a glimmer on her problem.