Edith Langford and Detective-Sergeant Anderson stared blankly at Mrs. Lundy after her shocking revelation.
“But how could you possibly know that Anabel is the victim’s daughter?” asked the detective incredulously.
“I talked to the servants, of course,” said Mrs. Lundy. “One servant in this case. Apparently, last week Mr. Markham — poor man — sent for his solicitor, and they were shut up in his study for ages. Well, the cook just happened to pass by the door when she heard him tell the solicitor all about it. It turns out that after his first wife died, there was a second marriage, to a Spanish girl. This was during the Great War, and it was all very romantic. She came from a wealthy family, but ran away to France to help the war effort, if you can believe it!” Mrs. Lundy sighed at this picture of adventure and romance.
“Right…?” said Anderson hopefully.
“And there was Mr. Markham, so dashing in his uniform — well the cook didn’t tell me that part, I’m just filling in the blanks. Anyway, they were married and divorced in the same year, and the girl went back to her family, convinced that Englishmen made impossible husbands.”
“I assume you’re filling in the blanks again?” Edith said with a smile.
“From life experience,” said Mrs. Lundy grimly. “My John was a dear soul, but he kept up a continual grumble for the entire forty years of our marriage. It was like living with a locomotive that had strong opinions on the Government.
“Anyway,” she continued, as Edith and the detective laughed, “it seems that last year Mr. Markham received a letter from the Spanish woman, saying she was on her deathbed and that he had a daughter who was working in London. He must have found her after that.”
“It seems incredible,” murmured Edith. “Do you think Anabel knows?”
“If she does, it throws a different light on the crime,” said Anderson. “Did the cook hear if Mr. Markham actually changed his will?”
“I’m afraid she didn’t,” said Mrs. Lundy.
“Well, I think it’s high time we had a chat with the family.”
The detective led the way to the drawing room, where Constable Horn had herded the relatives of the late Mr. Markham. Stephen, the elder son, sat staring gloomily into a whisky glass, his wife Clarissa perched beside him. Her beautiful silk frock reminded Edith of what she’d heard — Clarissa spent the family money on fashions almost as fast as her husband did on horses. Behind Stephen, his brother Alex paced back and forth, looking devastated. No wonder, thought Edith, when his last exchange with his father had been a terrible row.
On the other side of the room, the cook and nurse sat in hushed conversation. Only Anabel Rivera stood by the fireplace, squarely between the relatives and the staff, arms crossed in an attitude of defiant nonchalance. From her experience as a teacher, Edith knew the look. It was pure bluster.
D.S. Anderson went through the usual police procedures and skilfully managed the expected outcry when he explained that Mr. Markham’s death was due to strychnine poisoning.
“I understand how difficult this must be,” he said. “But another matter has come to light which we need to discuss. The matter of, erm…”
“If you mean our sister, we already know.” Stephen barely looked up from his whisky as he said it.
“Oh!” said Anderson, startled.
“Father told us a few days ago,” added Alex. “We welcomed her with open arms, didn’t we, Ana?”
The girl tossed him a look of contempt.
“Yes, you were all very kind — until it came to the matter of money.”
“So you admit you’re a gold-digger!” Clarissa hissed. “Your first thought is the family fortune!”
“And yours isn’t?”
“Everyone, if we could just—” Anderson began, but nobody paid attention.
“Don’t pretend you cared about the old man,” Ana snapped. “None of you were really kind to him. And apparently one of you poisoned him!”
“How dare you!”
“Murderers!” She pointed an accusing finger at the family, her eyes flashing. “He changed his will in my favour, and you took your vengeance!”
“Wait, you mean you all knew he’d changed his will?” asked Anderson.
“Oh yes,” said Ana proudly. “He told us when he explained that I was his daughter. The estate goes to me, to make up for all those years of neglect. I grew up in an orphanage, you know. My mother had to give me up. I deserve that money!”
“And we deserve to be robbed?” muttered Stephen angrily.
“Oh shut up,” said Alex. “At least you get a small legacy. I get nothing.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Clarissa. “We’ll… we’ll contest or something.”
“You’ll be on trial for murder first,” Ana retorted.
“Hah!” Alex suddenly let out a laugh. “There’s one thing Ana hasn’t thought of.”
They all turned to him.
“If the will was in your favour, that makes you the prime suspect!”
“You dare accuse me? You artista desgraciado—!”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Anderson tried again. “If we could all just calm down—”
“I was nowhere near him when he died!” Ana interrupted. “I left him right after Nurse gave him his medicine. I was outside the whole time. You can ask these ladies.” She nodded to Edith and Mrs. Lundy. The others looked turned to stare at them, as if just realising they were in the room.
“We did meet Miss Rivera on the drive,” admitted Edith. “And we were talking with her the entire time.”
“We were nowhere near him either!” exclaimed Stephen. “We were in the drawing room!”
“You can all make a statement as to your whereabouts in due course,” Anderson said firmly. “But— One. At. A. Time.”
He glared at them all until they settled down, murmuring sullenly. Anderson motioned for Stephen and Constable Horn to follow him into the next room.
“Do keep them from killing each other,” he murmured to Edith as he passed.
“I’m glad you decided to welcome the family to Longborough with a cake,” Edith said to Mrs. Lundy two hours later. She watched the Markhams polish off the last slices, bickering even over those. But at least tea and cake had kept them occupied whilst the interviews proceeded.
“And I’m glad we can finally go home,” said Mrs. Lundy. “Ah, there’s the detective now.”
D.S. Anderson thanked the family for their cooperation, and the three of them set off down the hill, accompanied by Constable Horn.
“Telephone call came in just now, sir,” he told Anderson. “The doctor says there were grains of strychnine at the bottom of the teacup.”
“Right.” Anderson sighed. “Well that makes my job impossible. What a case!”
“What do you mean?” asked Edith.
“From what everyone told me,” he explained, “the teacup was left unattended for a few minutes, on a tray in the hall. Alex was loitering on the stairs, with Stephen and Clarissa just nearby in the drawing room. They could have easily tampered with the tea.”
“But they knew the will left them next to nothing,” said Mrs. Lundy.
“Exactly! They had plenty of opportunity, but no motive. So now we turn to Miss Rivera. She and the nurse left Markham’s room at the same time and went downstairs. The nurse went to the kitchen for a cup of tea with the cook, and the two of them actually saw Miss Rivera walk out onto the drive.”
“Where she stayed the entire time talking to us,” said Edith.
“Precisely. Ample motive, zero opportunity.”
“I see what you mean,” murmured Edith. “What about how the tea was delivered?”
“The cook left the tray in the hall, went to make a fresh cup for the nurse, then after a few minutes came back and took the tray to Markham. She then returned to the kitchen. About five minutes later there was a violent ringing of the bell, and both the cook and the nurse rushed in to find the victim in convulsions. He didn’t last more than a few minutes after that.”
“How dreadful!” exclaimed Mrs. Lundy.
“Don’t worry Mrs. Lundy,” said the detective reassuringly, “we’ll bring the murderer to justice. I’m counting on Miss Langford to sort it all out as usual.”
Edith gave him a wry smile.
“Let’s consider opportunity first,” she said. “Could Anabel have snuck back into the house before we arrived?”
“Not without Alex seeing her. And he’d certainly not keep that fact to himself.”
“What about the cook and the nurse? They don’t seem to have a motive, but one ought to be thorough.”
“Oh yes, we never neglect the domestic element. The cook prepared the tea, so she had opportunity. But she’d served the family faithfully for years, and received a nice legacy in both the new and old wills. The nurse was with the cook the entire time, so unless they were colluding, she’s out of it.”
“I still find it suspicious that Alex was milling about near the tea,” said Mrs. Lundy. “It seems a shame he didn’t have a good motive!”
“Yes,” said Edith. “Let’s consider motive now. Could there be another reason for the brothers to poison their father?”
“Per’aps it’s like the young lady said,” put in the constable. “Revenge for doing them wrong.”
“That’s possible, I suppose,” said Anderson uncertainly.
“Wait!” exclaimed Mrs. Lundy. “What if the will was in Mr. Markham’s study? In all the confusion following his death, they could have destroyed it. And then they’d have a motive.”
“That’s true!” said Anderson. “Or perhaps they’d snuck into his study earlier. If the will was in the house, they’d have plenty of chances.”
“Motive and opportunity,” summed up Constable Horn. “Sir, I think we need to have another look at the study.”
“And another chat with the family,” agreed the detective.
Mrs. Lundy looked at them balefully.
“Does that mean we have to climb the hill again?” she sighed.
Daria Writes 