Dear Laura (10 page)

‘Come, sir,’ said Dr Padgett, drawing a sheet over the stern face, ‘a brother’s sorrow, though deep indeed, cannot be so great as that of wife for husband. Take Mrs Crozier
downstairs
and offer her what solace you can. It is a good thing,’ he added to Alice Nagle, ‘that they were all so close. Mr Titus will be a tower of strength to that poor lady.’

Disapproval crackled from every crease of Nanny’s apron. She sniffed loudly.

‘You and Mrs Hill must order the house between you for a while,’ he continued. ‘I fear that Mrs Crozier’s delicate constitution may have been overstrained. Watch her closely, and send for me if she seems more than commonly disturbed.’

‘Kate will watch her, sir,’ said Nanny Nagle stiffly. ‘Kate is the only one that you could call close to the mistress – among the staff, that is.’

*

The funeral was of ostentatious magnificence. Titus,
mindful
of his brother’s position, ordered it as Theodore himself would have done. Mutes, lifting black-edged handkerchiefs to their eyes, carrying long black staves, walked on either side of the procession. A dozen carriages followed the hearse. Across the Common they moved in stately measure. The subdued jingle of harness, the shuffle of feet, the restrained rumble of wheels, were a saraband to the dead. Within the glass-walled hearse the great walnut coffin rested beneath a mound of doomed flowers, which seemed to shiver in the winter
afternoon
as though they knew that the approach of night would wither them. In the first carriage, driven sadly and soberly by Henry Hann, Laura and Titus sat very straight-backed
opposite
the three straight-backed children. All was a rich unrelieved black, from the drooping plumes upon the horses’ heads to the veil over Laura’s face. The horses themselves were chosen for their silky sombre coats, and trained to walk mournfully. Even the swish of a long tail, the flick of a long mane, was
understated
,
never indulged. No hint of light or sparkle marred the cortège.

As they passed, men stopped and uncovered their heads, standing in silent respect. Women composed their features into masks of sympathy. Children stared open-mouthed, solemn-eyed, at the terrible splendour of man’s end. In St Mary’s churchyard the grave-diggers blew upon their
freezing
hands, and stamped their feet for warmth upon the freezing ground.

‘Ashes to ashes and dust to dust …’

The silver trowel of earth in Laura’s gloved hand.

‘… Resurrection to Eternal Life.’

She had fainted, overcome by emotion and tight-lacing.
Murmurs
of pleasurable concern, a waving of smelling salts, brought her wanly round. She had become the widow
absolute
: bereft of protection, prostrated with grief. It was all very sad, strangely satisfying, and very proper.

DR PADGETT
sat a long time with the letter in his hand, then folded and placed it with the other two in his breast pocket. Unsigned, printed in strong square capitals by someone
unaccustomed
to expressing themselves literally, it had been posted in Wimbledon. The wording was brief, the meaning plain, the implications far-reaching.

Should he consult Mrs Padgett? That stout good lady who had shared his bed and presided over her table for a quarter of a century? No, a woman’s judgement in these matters would be faulty. He imagined her throwing up her hands, taking one side or the other according
to her caprice, then gossiping over teacups.

He had discounted the first anonymous note, but preserved it out of uneasiness. The second disturbed him more
profoundly
. The third forced him to action. Normally he would have consulted Titus, as head of the Crozier family, but Titus was one of the parties named. It must be another man:
cautious
, trustworthy, objective. The Crozier’s family solicitor, perhaps?

‘My love,’ said Dr Padgett, to the lady of his house, ‘I shall be away for half an hour or so. If there should be any urgent call I am with Mr Fitzgerald.’

Who was a small sharp man with large ears and an inquiring mind: a fox-terrier of a person, bent on hunting out.

‘I had thought,’ said Padgett to him, troubled, ‘that you could have printed a warning letter in
The
Times
–
or
something
of that sort?’

‘Not a bit of it, my good sir. Not a bit of it. No, indeed. We must fetch this matter into the open.’

‘Poor Mrs Crozier. Quite enough distress already. A nervous disposition. Further trouble to be strictly avoided.’

‘You speak as a medical man, sir, and quite rightly. I as a legal one, also rightly. And I can assure you that there is nothing here to be hushed up or smoothed over. Tongues are wagging, sir. They will wag the harder if we do not snip them short!’

‘Then what do you advise, sir?’

‘We must put these notes into the hands of Scotland Yard, sir, without delay. It will mean an exhumation. You are sure of the cause of Mr Crozier’s death, of course?’

‘No doubt of it, sir. The late Mr Crozier suffered from high blood pressure, and his temperament was a gnawing one. How often have I warned him that worry could accomplish what the constitution might not? Ah well. Take it from me, sir,
post-influenzal
weakness coupled to an outburst of rage brought on that haemorrhage. Nature, sir, can work against us as well as for us. She didn’t care to be badgered, sir, and she struck back! I would swear to that on my father’s Bible – God rest him!’

‘Then my client and your patient can come to no harm. Scotland Yard, sir, will not only clear the lady’s name – and that of her brother-in-law – but may even track down the
scurrilous
villain who impugns their honour. Scotland Yard are uncommon sharp on ruffians, I hear. Eager hounds, sir, eager hounds. Glad to track down.’

‘The shock will prostrate her,’ Padgett mourned. ‘I would have spared her if I could.’

‘So would I, sir,’ said Fitzgerald, so busy over his morsel that he would not have let go for worlds. ‘But we must – in your own jargon – prescribe sour medicine to effect a cure.’

Dr Padgett smoothed the nap of his top hat.

‘Would you accompany me, sir, to call upon Mr Crozier and the lady? I feel we really cannot go straight to the police
without
informing them of our intention first?’

Fitzgerald consulted his fob-watch with some complacency, and restored it to his waistcoat pocket in satisfaction.

‘This evening at nine o’clock, then? We shall all have dined. Should you ask them if we might wait upon them, or shall I?’

‘I will call as I pass,’ said the doctor. ‘I have done so
frequently
since her husband died. Mrs Crozier’s spirits are not as high as I could wish. I will not have her unduly alarmed if I can help it.’

*

Titus was in great good humour when they arrived. He had dined well, and felt confident that Laura as a widow would be more amenable than Laura as a wife. True, she seemed
subdued
still, but she had lost her sadness. As head of the family, guardian of his late brother’s children, and her official
protector
, the field was open and he prepared to wait. But he kept his cheerfulness within the bounds of decorum, disguising it as courtesy.

‘My dear madam,’ Padgett began, while Fitzgerald sat up sharp and smiling. ‘I beg you to compose yourself. This is a shocking matter, but not irrevocably so – eh, my dear sir?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Fitzgerald, head on one side, watching everyone. ‘Merely a distasteful formality, madam.’

‘I was not aware, Mrs Crozier – how could I be? – that you had enemies,’ Padgett murmured. ‘But even unspotted virtue and peerless womanhood, it appears, may rouse vile envy in the human breast …’

‘Get on with it, man, get on with it!’ cried the solicitor
tetchily
, as Laura fingered her jet choker and grew paler.

‘I have received three anonymous letters,’ said Padgett, glancing angrily at his colleague, ‘over which I took the liberty of consulting Mr Fitzgerald. Like myself, he utterly denounces and repudiates these abominable slanders. But he feels they cannot be ignored.’

Laura did not speak, only motioned him to continue, and sat very still.

‘The first that came,’ Padgett mumbled, unfolding it and endeavouring to translate it into acceptable terms, ‘suggested that your late husband was poisoned by Mr Titus Crozier in order that he could benefit by the terms of the will …’

‘Which allows you full financial control over the family firm, you will recollect, my dear sir – subject to certain restrictions,
of course!’ Fitzgerald intercepted, giving Titus a very bright look.

Laura breathed quickly, and touched her jet as though it could ward off evil.

‘The second, my dear madam,’ Padgett continued,
embarrassed
, ‘and I pray you to forgive me for being forced to mention such a matter, suggested that you and Mr Titus were – more closely acquainted – than relatives by marriage should be.’

Fitzgerald eyed them, head tilted, no longer smiling. Laura shaded her eyes from the glare of the fire.

‘Should I ring for your maid, madam?’ Padgett asked anxiously.

‘Please do not trouble,’ she replied clearly. ‘I am perfectly well. I am deeply shocked and astonished, but I am perfectly well.’

‘The third,’ Padgett stated, ‘put together both villainous suggestions, and accused you and Mr Titus of – of – really I do not know how to express myself in the presence of a lady of …’

‘Adultery and murder,’ said Fitzgerald roundly, and noted the effect of his words.

Titus stood up and rested one arm on the mantelshelf, one patent leather shoe on the kerb, looking down at the flames. Laura drew a long breath, reached for her fan, and waved it languidly to and fro.

‘I sincerely regret the necessity of this intrusion,’ said
Padgett
, agitated. ‘I do assure you that never, in all the years I have practised, have I come across so monstrous an infamy. Such a slander!’

Laura snapped her fan shut.

‘As head of the family,’ she said quietly, ‘Mr Crozier must answer you. It is hardly my place to say what should or should not be done. Nor would I know how to advise anyone.’

Even Fitzgerald was mollified by her behaviour, resolute and yet modest.

‘Very proper,’ he said, ‘very right and proper, Mrs Crozier. Well, sir?’ to Titus, who was not nearly so well in command
of himself, ‘What do you think of this libel? Libel, sir, not slander,’ he added to Padgett. ‘Libel is written, slander is spoken. We must get our facts correctly, I think.’

‘I need hardly say that there is no word of truth in any of these statements, I take it?’ Titus began.

‘No sir, there is no need!’ cried the doctor.

Fitzgerald made a gesture which might, or might not, have concurred with this remark.

‘Is there no way in which the writer may be found and silenced?’

‘I know of none, except through the police,’ Fitzgerald replied.

‘Are there no private people who might be employed for such a purpose?’

‘What, sir? Pursue them secretly and lay yourself open to blackmail? That would be a pretty pickle!’

‘Laura,’ said Titus, ‘I am afraid that there is talk ahead of us, in any case, whatever we do,’ and he ventured to look at her.

Nothing could be divined from her expression. She looked back at him as calmly as though the three letters had never been written: as a sister-in-law looks at a brother-in-law she has known for fifteen years. Affectionately, trustfully, frankly.

‘One can bear anything if one knows the truth,’ she answered, and spread out her fan and admired its ivories.

‘Then take them to Scotland Yard,’ said Titus, ‘and be damned to them! I crave your pardon, Laura – I forgot myself.’

She inclined a graceful head.

‘I commend your decision, sir,’ said Fitzgerald drily. ‘I regret the need for it.’

‘And I, too. I, too. My dear Mrs Crozier, should I not ring for Kate? The shock – the grievous upset to your nervous system.’

‘I can suffer no more than I have done,’ she replied coldly. ‘There comes an end even to suffering, I find.’

‘By the by,’ said Fitzgerald, at the door, ‘this will mean an exhumation, I am afraid. You do realize that?’

She stared at him, and what little colour she possessed left her face.

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Fitzgerald, rocking on his heels. ‘There has been accusation of poisoning. They
must
exhume.’

She rose, reached out a hand as if for help, and pitched to the carpet before even Padgett could fuss forward. In the mêlée of bell-ringing, hurrying maids, burning feathers and sal volatile, three conscience-stricken men watched Laura revive into tears.

‘I gave him one of my capsules,’ she wept, ‘they will arrest me. I can never forgive myself.’

Dr Padgett, fanning her ardently, concealed a smile and shook his head. Titus and Fitzgerald stared at each other.

‘My dear sirs,’ said Padgett, so relieved by her second
confession
that he could have laughed aloud, ‘the capsule contained one-sixth grain of quinine and the same of morphine. I have told the lady already that this could have made no difference to the illness from which Mr Crozier died, one way or the other. But it really is extremely difficult – when the ladies get a notion in their heads …’

A touched amusement wiped the evening clean.

‘I beg you to excuse me,’ Laura whispered from the sofa, and the shelter of Kate’s arm, ‘I have not been myself of late.’

They exchanged smiles. She was everything they could have wished her to be: beautiful, frail, loving and most charmingly foolish.

*

The funeral had been majestic. The exhumation shameful. Apart from occasional admonitions and directions, it proceeded in silence. A cold wind reddened noses and ruffled cloaks and greatcoats as the coffin jolted into light of day again. The two grave-diggers wiped their faces with the corner of their
neckerchiefs
, cleaned grimed hands on nankeen breeches, touched their caps and pocketed a tip apiece. An unpleasant business. Beneath the scratched wood, in fearful corruption, lay evidence of guilt or innocence.

‘Sooner the doctor than me,’ said one grave-digger to the
other, as they filled in the cavity. ‘I don’t mind a-burying of them, but a-cutting up of them after is nasty!’

The other man spat, as though the too-sweet stench were in his mouth instead of his nostrils.

At the morgue, the forensic surgeon carried out his task methodically, delicately, accurately, and made his report.

The body contained a lethal dose of morphine. Three grains had dispatched Theodore Augustus Sydney Crozier to his Maker.

*

‘Have you any notion, ma’am, where or when your late husband might have obtained such a quantity of morphine?’ Padgett asked.

She stared for a full minute out of her drawing-room window.

‘I should have spoken earlier,’ she said at last, ‘but I wanted to avoid a scandal, and I may have thus mistakenly involved myself in a greater one. I had a full bottle of the tablets you prescribed for me, since I was at the end of the others. When I fetched the bottle out, the night after Theodore’s death, I found it empty. Would they be sufficient to furnish such a dose?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Padgett gravely, ‘they would. It is a pity,’ he added, ‘that you did not think fit to confide this matter to me. It will not look well, coming after the post-mortem, I fear. Why did you not do so?’

She replied simply and truthfully, ‘Because I was afraid.’