No Wind of Blame

By the next morning, nearly everyone connected with the case, instead of having been soothed by a night’s repose, was in a state either of exasperation or of foreboding. The Inspector found himself bogged in a quagmire of evidence; Mary foresaw endless days of strain; the Prince had, apparently, realised his own position, and was feeling it acutely; and Ermyntrude had discovered a fresh grievance against Harold White. Only Vicky came down to breakfast with her usual serenity.

Ermyntrude had been persuaded to breakfast in her room, but not in solitude. She held a sort of court, sitting up in bed against such a background of silk, and lace-edged pillows, and in such an exotic wrapper, that she reminded her visitors irresistibly of a sultan’s favourite wife. The morning’s post had brought her a certain measure of comfort, for the news of Wally’s death had spread quickly over the countryside, and she was able to say with mournful pride that all the best people had written to her. Letters strewed the coverlet of her bed, and whenever she opened one that particularly gratified her, she summoned Mary or Vicky to her side to hear about it. In the intervals of reading the letters of condolence, and absentmindedly consuming a quantity of toast and marmalade, she issued general orders for the day, directed her maid what clothes to lay out for her, and discussed exhaustively the mourning raiment that must instantly be bought for her. Breakfast for those in the dining-room became an unquiet meal, disturbed continuously by the ringing of Ermyntrude’s bell, and the constant appearances of housemaids bearing urgent, and very often contradictory, messages from the widow.

It had occurred to Ermyntrude, in the night watches, that not only had her husband met his death on his way to keep an assignation which she had known nothing about, but that no one had so far explained to her why he had gone over to see that Harold White. A note from Lady Dering, delivered by hand, took her mind off this problem for a little while, but she remembered it again when she rang for her breakfast, and at once sent for Mary and commanded her instantly to ring up the Dower House, and to summon White to her presence.

‘You mark my words, dearie, whatever it was that took poor Wally there, that White wasn’t up to any good!’ she said. ‘And considering my position, and Wally being shot practically in his garden, I should have thought the least he could do would be to have come right over to apologise – well, no, I don’t mean that exactly, but, anyway, he ought to have come.’

By this time, Mary had been connected with the Dower House. Janet’s voice hurried into distressful speech, and for quite a few moments Mary had no opportunity of delivering Ermyntrude’s message. However, when she saw Ermyntrude stretch out a hand to wrest the pink enamel receiver away from her, she broke in on the flood of Janet’s condolences, and said that Ermyntrude was anxious to see White, and would be grateful if he could spare the time to call on her on his way to the colliery offices.

‘Grateful!’ ejaculated Ermyntrude. ‘Don’t talk so silly to her, Mary! Tell her I say he is to come!’

Mary did not pass on this peremptory message, because Janet was explaining that her father had left for the collieries.

Mary covered the mouthpiece with her hand. ‘He’s gone to work. Janet wants to know if you’d like him to look in this evening.’

‘Oh, he’s gone to work, has he?’ said Ermyntrude wrathfully. ‘And no more thought for me lying here in the dark than that bed-post! Not so much as a note, or a message, either!’

‘Janet says he told her she was to call this morning, and leave cards.’

‘What’s the good of cards?’ demanded Ermyntrude. ‘I don’t want her cards! I don’t want her either, if it comes to that, for though I’m sure I’ve nothing against the girl, she frets me to death, and if there is a time when I might expect to have my nerves considered, it’s now!’

Mary made frantic signs to her to be quiet, and tried to tell Janet that Ermyntrude was not up to receiving visitors. Janet said: ‘I thought as I was the last person who saw him alive, she’d like me to come and tell her just how he died.’

‘No, I don’t think that would be very desirable,’ said Mary.

‘I thought it might be a comfort to her,’ said Janet. ‘I’m certain he didn’t suffer at all. It was over in an instant. One moment I was standing looking at him—’

‘Look here, Janet, not over the telephone!’ begged Mary.

‘No, of course not. I’ll come over and tell you all about it, and it’ll sort of set your mind at rest.’

‘Thank you,’ said Mary faintly.

She hung up the receiver, and turned her attention to Ermyntrude, who had succeeded in working herself up into a state of indignation against White, for having callously gone to work as though nothing had happened; against Janet, for pushing herself in where she was not wanted, and no doubt thinking Wally’s death had made her very important and against Alan, for no very intelligible reason, except that he was the son of his father.

When she was in the middle of a really impassioned diatribe against the Whites, Vicky walked into the room with her table-napkin under her arm, and a slice of toast and butter in one hand, and announced that two reporters were seeking to gain admittance to the house.

Ermyntrude first exclaimed ‘The Press!’ in a throbbing voice of anguish, and clasped her head in her hands; but this gesture was merely mechanical, and an instant later she let her hands fall, and sat up, thrusting her breakfast-tray to one side of the bed. ‘Whatever happens you’re not to talk to them, nor see them either, Vicky!’ she said briskly.

‘Oh, darling, can’t I? I’ve never had my picture in the papers, and I quite think they might take one of me.’

‘That’s just what they’re not going to get a chance of doing. Now, don’t argue, there’s a love! God knows I want you to have your photograph in the papers, ducky, and so you

shall, but this is the wrong kind of publicity for you, you take my word for it! Mary, run quick, and tell Peake they’re not to be let in! Good gracious, it would ruin Vicky’s chances – absolutely ruin them! Mary, wait a minute! Let me think! We shall have to give them some kind of a statement, and I was just thinking if Alexis doesn’t mind he might have a talk with them; and if they choose to take a picture of him, and say how he’s a guest here I’m sure I’ve no objection to that. Ask him, Mary dear, but tell him to be careful what he says to them!’

The Prince did not at first take very kindly to the suggestion that he should interview the representatives of the Press, but Mary, remembering with what ease Inspector Cook had induced her to disclose far more than she had meant to, was determined that she was not going to allow herself to be interrogated by eager reporters, and made it plain to the Prince that if his object in staying at Palings was to be of use, here was his chance.

It was not long before Janet arrived, carrying a bunch of dahlias, which she begged Mary to give to Ermyntrude with her love.

‘I couldn’t go into Fritton, because my bicycle’s got a puncture, so I had to pick what I could out of the garden,’ she explained. ‘I’m sorry they aren’t nicer, but I felt I must bring something. I wish they could have been lilies.’

Mary took the flowers, and thanked her, and went away to put them in water, leaving Janet to wait in the morning-room. When Ermyntrude, who happened to be on her way downstairs as Mary crossed the hall, saw the offering, she was not at all grateful, but, on the contrary, inclined to be affronted. She said that a lot of dahlias ranging in colour from rich scarlet to flaming yellow looked more like a harvest festival than a funeral, and told Mary to put them where they wouldn’t be noticed.

So Mary put them in the garden-hall, and went back to give Janet a mendacious message from Ermyntrude.

Janet presented an even more untidy appearance than usual, and showed a tendency to cry. Though she had not herself liked Wally Carter, and knew very well that he had been a most unsatisfactory husband, stepfather and guardian, she apparently expected Mary to be heartbroken at his death, and asked her anxiously if she had been able to cry.

‘No,’ said Mary. ‘I mean, I don’t want to cry.’