“So what do you know about these newcomers?” Edith Langford asked, as she and Mrs. Lundy hurried along the lane to Townsend House, the latter hefting a large cake she’d made specially “to greet the new neighbours”. Townsend House may be so named because it sat at the very edge of Longborough, but Mrs. Lundy wasn’t going to let a narrow definition of the word ‘neighbour’ stop her from getting a glimpse of the mysterious new tenants.
“Not much, I’m afraid,” sighed Mrs. Lundy. “No one seems to know anything except that they’re wealthy, they come from London, and they’ve taken Townsend House for a year.”
“I suppose ‘they’ are a family?” said Edith, mentally calculating whether the village school where she taught could fit more students.
“Yes, an older gentleman and his two sons. And one of them is married, I believe, because just this morning I happened to look out the window and there was a woman in her thirties going to the village shop, blonde and very stylish too. And I could tell right away from her hat that she was from London.”
Edith laughed.
“Mrs. Lundy, the Secret Service could use an agent like you!”
As they rounded a corner, the house came into view — Edwardian, imposing, and in need of repair. It made a particularly stark contrast to the young woman standing on its drive. With her dark curls, stylish trousers, and bright red lipstick, she looked like a film star who had missed Ealing by several worlds.
She flashed them a smile.
“Hullo, is this the village welcome committee?”
And as Mrs. Lundy stared at her with increasing horror, she took out a cigarette and lit it.
“Want one?” she asked.
“No… no thank you,” Mrs. Lundy murmured faintly. The girl waved her cigarette case at Edith, who shook her head. I hope she realises she’ll be the talk of Longborough in about half an hour, she thought. Possibly sooner, depending on how quickly Mrs. Lundy can make it down the hill.
“How do you do,” she said to the girl, while her friend regained her composure. “I’m Edith Langford, and this is Mrs. Lundy.”
“Anabel Rivera, Mr. Markham’s secretary. Call me Ana.” The girl clamped her cigarette between her teeth and shook hands with them. Seeing Mrs. Lundy’s raised eyebrows, she added, “Yes, I am half Spanish.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Lundy nodded, as if this explained everything. Edith tried to keep a straight face and pointed at the cake.
“We wanted to welcome the family to Longborough,” she said.
“That’s very kind of you.” Ana lowered her voice. “Although if I’m honest, you’re wasting your time. My employer’s a grumpy old curmudgeon. He’ll probably refuse to even see you. And as for the rest of them—”
She stopped as the front door banged open and a young man strode out, hands in his pockets. He took three steps down the drive, turned back, and slammed the door shut. Then he stuck his hands back in his pockets and marched down the drive once more.
“Bad day, Alex?” Ana called out.
“The worst.” He looked up and seemed to finally notice the visitors. “If you’re here to see my father, forget it. He’s a foul old beast who doesn’t deserve your time.”
With that he marched past them and disappeared down the lane.
“So that was Alex Markham,” said Ana matter-of-factly, as Edith and her friend stared after the retreating figure. “Younger son and resident ne’er-do-well. He’s trying to be an artist against Old Markham’s express wishes.”
“Perhaps we should come back another time,” said Edith.
Ana flashed a grin.
“Don’t worry, they’re always like that. Alex gets disowned about once a fortnight, then they reconcile. It upsets poor Stephen to no end. That’s the older son,” she added helpfully. “He’s the paragon, of course. Helps run the family business, never says boo to Old Markham. But he and Clarissa — that’s his wife — are so boring.”
She took a drag of her cigarette and went on.
“I might as well give you the low down on the rest of us. Old Markham’s been an invalid for years. Weak heart. No wonder he’s so cross all the time, really. It’s been a bit better since they hired Nurse Banks to look after him. A very intimidating creature, all starch and spectacles. Won’t let the old man smoke and evicts the rest of us when we do.” She sniffed derisively. “Then there’s Mrs. Dale the cook, and yours truly.” She gave a little bow. “We haven’t sorted out servants yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Old Markham got fed up with country living and moved us all back to London before that could happen.”
“Oh, but Mr. Markham couldn’t find a nicer village if he tried!” Mrs. Lundy regained her voice in defence of her beloved Longborough. “I’m sure he’ll like it here.”
The girl shrugged and motioned them toward the house.
“Maybe. Anyway, let’s see if he’s up to visitors today.”
As they reached the front door, it flew open for the second time, and Edith got a strange sense of deja-vu. A tall, dark-haired man stood there, looking like an older version of Alex Markham. He gaped at them in apparent bewilderment.
“Hullo Stephen,” said Ana breezily. “These ladies are here to see your father.”
Stephen Markham let out a strange, short laugh.
“Bad luck there,” he told them. “He’s dead.”
“How is it,” asked Detective-Sergeant Anderson a short while later, as he and Edith stood on the lawn of Townsend House, “that every time there’s a mystery in this village, you’re somehow involved?”
“Are you threatening to investigate me again?” Edith smiled, thinking back to their first meeting. Anderson’s blue eyes flashed merrily.
“No, this time I request the help of the master criminal. I think we’re going to need your skills to solve this one.”
Edith blushed.
“It seems straightforward,” she murmured. “Poor Mr. Markham died of strychnine poisoning, didn’t he?”
Anderson looked at her sharply.
“How did you know that?”
“Mr. Markham was an invalid with a weak heart. His son would have no reason to suspect foul play and ring the police unless there were unusual symptoms. And strychnine is both easily obtained and produces severe muscle spasms.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thinking I’m relying on,” said Anderson warmly. “You wouldn’t catch Constable Horn making deductions like that, bless him. Yes, the doctor suspects strychnine. He’s taken the teacup away for analysis. Markham’s secretary says he was in the habit of taking a cup of tea at three o’clock while she went to smoke outside.”
Edith nodded.
“We met her on the drive. She gave us quite a portrait of the family.”
“Yes, from what I can tell, both sons had a motive. The youngest had a blazing row with his father after lunch. The nurse and cook both heard the victim say—” he consulted his notebook. “You’ll not see a penny, I’m leaving it all to the son and daughter who deserve it.”
“But before he could write Alex out of the will, he died. That does seem like a strong motive, except…” Edith frowned. “Poison is a premeditated crime. Alex struck me as a hotheaded, artistic type. Not one to plan a murder.”
“Perhaps,” Anderson conceded. “Although there wasn’t much to plan. They had some rat poison hanging about the house. The tea was left on the sideboard to cool for a few minutes, for the invalid’s convenience, and everyone knew the routine.”
“What about Stephen and Clarissa?” asked Edith.
“Apparently Stephen is not the deserving son his father thought him. He gambles and has run up dangerous debts of late.”
“So an inheritance would be a life-saver for him.”
“Exactly. How did he seem when you first saw him?”
“Genuinely shocked,” said Edith, thinking back. “What about Clarissa?”
“The other deserving one?” Anderson gave a wry smile. “She spends money on fashion like her husband does on horses. How they kept their extravagance from the old man for so long is a mystery in itself.”
“Edith! Detective Anderson!”
They turned to see Mrs. Lundy hurrying down the path towards them, this time without her cake.
“Oh my dears, I’m so glad I caught you!” She stopped, out of breath. “You see, there’s something—”
“What is it, Mrs. Lundy?” Anderson asked in some alarm.
“I’ve just found out something very important,” huffed Mrs. Lundy. “I hope it can help with your investigation.”
“Is it about Mr. Markham’s sons?” asked Edith eagerly.
“No no, that’s just it. It’s about his daughter.”
“You mean Clarissa?”
Mrs. Lundy shook her head vigorously.
“No, my dear. I mean his real daughter. Anabel.”
Daria Writes 