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So that was that, Craddock thought.
Yet he felt his journey had not been in vain. Pip and Emma, those twin wraiths, were not quite wraiths.
Craddock thought, “Here’s a brother and sister brought up somewhere in Europe. Sonia Goedler was a rich woman at the time of her marriage, but money in Europe hasn’t remained money. Queer things have happened to money during these war years. And so there are two young people, the son and daughter of a man who had a criminal record. Suppose they came to England, more or less penniless. What would they do? Find out about any rich relatives. Their uncle, a man of vast fortune, is dead. Possibly the first thing they’d do would be to look up their uncle’s will. See if by any chance money had been left to them or to their mother. So they go to Somerset House and learn the contents of his will, and then, perhaps, they learn of the existence of Miss Letitia Blacklock. Then they make inquiries about Randall Goedler’s widow. She’s an invalid, living up in Scotland, and they find out she hasn’t long to live. If this Letitia Blacklock dies before her, they will come into a vast fortune. What then?”
Craddock thought, “They wouldn’t go to Scotland. They’d find out where Letitia Blacklock is living now. And they’d go there—but not as themselves … They’d go together—or separately? Emma … I wonder?… Pip and Emma … I’ll eat my hat if Pip, or Emma, or both of them, aren’t in Chipping Cleghorn now….”
Fifteen
DELICIOUS DEATH
I
In the kitchen at Little Paddocks, Miss Blacklock was giving instructions to Mitzi.
“Sardine sandwiches as well as the tomato ones. And some of those little scones you make so nicely. And I’d like you to make that special cake of yours.”
“Is it a party then, that you want all these things?”
“It’s Miss Bunner’s birthday, and some people will be coming to tea.”
“At her age one does not have birthdays. It is better to forget.”
“Well, she doesn’t want to forget. Several people are bringing her presents—and it will be nice to make a little party of it.”
“That is what you say last time—and see what happened!”
Miss Blacklock controlled her temper.
“Well, it won’t happen this time.”
“How do you know what may happen in this house? All day long I shiver and at night I lock my door and I look in the wardrobe to see no one is hidden there.”
“That ought to keep you nice and safe,” said Miss Blacklock, coldly.
“The cake that you want me to make, it is the—?” Mitzi uttered a sound that to Miss Blacklock’s English ear sounded like Schwitzebzr or alternatively like cats spitting at each other.
“That’s the one. The rich one.”
“Yes. It is rich. For it I have nothing! Impossible to make such a cake. I need for it chocolate and much butter, and sugar and raisins.”
“You can use this tin of butter that was sent us from America. And some of the raisins we were keeping for Christmas, and here is a slab of chocolate and a pound of sugar.”
Mitzi’s face suddenly burst into radiant smiles.
“So, I make him for you good—good,” she cried, in an ecstasy. “It will be rich, rich, of a melting richness! And on top I will put the icing—chocolate icing—I make him so nice—and write on it Good Wishes. These English people with their cakes that tastes of sand, never never, will they have tasted such a cake. Delicious, they will say—delicious—”
Her face clouded again.
“Mr. Patrick. He called it Delicious Death. My cake! I will not have my cake called that!”
“It was a compliment really,” said Miss Blacklock. “He meant it was worth dying to eat such a cake.”
Mitzi looked at her doubtfully.
“Well, I do not like that word—death. They are not dying because they eat my cake, no, they feel much, much better….”
“I’m sure we all shall.”
Miss Blacklock turned away and left the kitchen with a sigh of relief at the successful ending of the interview. With Mitzi one never knew.
She ran into Dora Bunner outside.
“Oh, Letty, shall I run in and tell Mitzi just how to cut the sandwiches?”
“No,” said Miss Blacklock, steering her friend firmly into the hall. “She’s in a good mood now and I don’t want her disturbed.”
“But I could just show her—”
“Please don’t show her anything, Dora. These central Europeans don’t like being shown. They hate it.”
Dora looked at her doubtfully. Then she suddenly broke into smiles.
“Edmund Swettenham just rang up. He wished me many happy returns of the day and said he was bringing me a pot of honey as a present this afternoon. Isn’t it kind? I can’t imagine how he knew it was my birthday.”
“Everybody seems to know. You must have been talking about it, Dora.”
“Well, I did just happen to mention that today I should be fifty-nine.”
“You’re sixty-four,” said Miss Blacklock with a twinkle.
“And Miss Hinchcliffe said, ‘You don’t look it. What age do you think I am?’ Which was rather awkward because Miss Hinchcliffe always looks so peculiar that she might be any age. She said she was bringing me some eggs, by the way. I said our hens hadn’t been laying very well, lately.”
“We’re not doing so badly out of your birthday,” said Miss Blacklock. “Honey, eggs—a magnificent box of chocolates from Julia—”
“I don’t know where she gets such things.”
“Better not ask. Her methods are probably strictly illegal.”
“And your lovely brooch.” Miss Bunner looked down proudly at her bosom on which was pinned a small diamond leaf.
“Do you like it? I’m glad. I never cared for jewellery.”
“I love it.”
“Good. Let’s go and feed the ducks.”
II
“Ha,” cried Patrick dramatically, as the party took their places round the dining room table. “What do I see before me? Delicious Death.”
“Hush,” said Miss Blacklock. “Don’t let Mitzi hear you. She objects to your name for her cake very much.”
“Nevertheless, Delicious Death it is! Is it Bunny’s birthday cake?”
“Yes, it is,” said Miss Bunner. “I really am having the most wonderful birthday.”
Her cheeks were flushed with excitement and had been ever since Colonel Easterbrook had handed her a small box of sweets and declaimed with a bow, “Sweets to the Sweet!”
Julia had turned her head away hurriedly, and had been frowned at by Miss Blacklock.
Full justice was done to the good things on the tea table and they rose from their seats after a round of crackers.
“I feel slightly sick,” said Julia. “It’s that cake. I remember I felt just the same last time.”
“It’s worth it,” said Patrick.
“These foreigners certainly understand confectionery,” said Miss Hinchcliffe. “What they can’t make is a plain boiled pudding.”
Everybody was respectfully silent, though it seemed to be hovering on Patrick’s lips to ask if anyone really wanted a plain boiled pudding.
“Got a new gardener?” asked Miss Hinchcliffe of Miss Blacklock as they returned to the drawing room.
“No, why?”
“Saw a man snooping round the henhouse. Quite a decent-looking Army type.”
“Oh, that,” said Julia. “That’s our detective.”
Mrs. Easterbrook dropped her handbag.
“Detective?” she exclaimed. “But—but—why?”
“I don’t know,” said Julia. “He prowls about and keeps an eye on the house. He’s protecting Aunt Letty, I suppose.”
“Absolute nonsense,” said Miss Blacklock. “I can protect myself, thank you.”
“But surely it’s all over now,” cried Mrs. Easterbrook. “Though I meant to ask you, why did they adjourn the inquest?”
“Police aren’t satisfied,” sa
id her husband. “That’s what that means.”
“But aren’t satisfied of what?”
Colonel Easterbrook shook his head with the air of a man who could say a good deal more if he chose. Edmund Swettenham, who disliked the Colonel, said, “The truth of it is, we’re all under suspicion.”
“But suspicion of what?” repeated Mrs. Easterbrook.
“Never mind, kitten,” said her husband.
“Loitering with intent,” said Edmund. “The intent being to commit murder upon the first opportunity.”
“Oh, don’t, please don’t, Mr. Swettenham.” Dora Bunner began to cry. “I’m sure nobody here could possibly want to kill dear, dear Letty.”
There was a moment of horrible embarrassment. Edmund turned scarlet, murmured, “Just a joke.” Phillipa suggested in a high clear voice that they might listen to the six o’clock news and the suggestion was received with enthusiastic assent.
Patrick murmured to Julia: “We need Mrs. Harmon here. She’d be sure to say in that high clear voice of hers, ‘But I suppose somebody is still waiting for a good chance to murder you, Miss Blacklock?’”
“I’m glad she and that old Miss Marple couldn’t come,” said Julia. “That old woman is the prying kind. And a mind like a sink, I should think. Real Victorian type.”
Listening to the news led easily into a pleasant discussion on the horrors of atomic warfare. Colonel Easterbrook said that the real menace to civilization was undoubtedly Russia, and Edmund said that he had several charming Russian friends—which announcement was coldly received.
The party broke up with renewed thanks to the hostess.
“Enjoy yourself, Bunny?” asked Miss Blacklock, as the last guest was sped.
“Oh, I did. But I’ve got a terrible headache. It’s the excitement, I think.”
