Authors: John Dickson Carr
She Died a Lady (27 page)
As for me, I couldn’t look at either of them.
‘Tom,’ I said, ‘went into the Army a week after his father died. Of course we never guessed …’ I stopped. ‘Tom’s in Libya now.’
H.M. shook his head.
‘No, he ain’t, son. I saw the
Gazette
. That’s why I came down here. Thomas L. Croxley has been awarded a post-humous V.C., and that’s the very highest award for bravery they give.’ After a pause he added: ‘There was good stuff in that family, even if one of’ em was a murderer.’
Again a long silence.
‘Paul,’ Molly observed at length, ‘goes next month.’
‘Oh, ah? What branch?’
‘Field-artillery, maestro. To the devil with this Camouflage stuff. And Molly, of course, with her typewriting training …’
‘We’re all going somewhere,’ said Molly. ‘Maybe we don’t know where, or very much about it; but we’re going. Where are
you
going, H.M.?’
H.M. threw his cigar into the fire. He sat back, twiddling his thumbs across his corporation, and turned down the corners of his mouth.
‘Me?’ he said drearily. ‘Oh, I’m only goin’ into the House of Lords.’
His voice was ruminative when he spoke again.
‘Taunton, Ticklebury, Tweed,’ he said. ‘Tattersall, Throttlebottom, Twist.’
‘Listen, maestro! If you’re going into the House of Lords, many congratulations –’
‘
Congratulations
?’ roared H.M. ‘The blighters have been tryin’ to do it for years, to get me off the active list. And now the treacherous skunks have done it. They’re goin’ to stick me in the House of Lords in the next honours list.’
‘– But,’ I said, ‘just what is all this glorified train-calling you’ve been doing for half the evening?’
H.M. wagged his head.
‘I got to think of a title,’ he explained querulously. ‘I got to tell ’em what title I want …
want! Phooey
! … so they can make out letters-patent. Do you like any of ’em?’
‘Lord Ticklebury,’ Molly repeated. ‘No; I don’t think I should like that.’
‘Neither do I,’ said H.M. ‘I’m just tryin’ to think of something that’s not goin’ to make me writhe. Gimme my bedroom-candle. I’m goin’ to turn in.’
I handed it to him, lighting it in a less spectacular manner than with the flaming brand. The candlelight shone up on his face. He seemed to be held by some curious emotion we could not understand.
‘But you wait!’ he suddenly roared out. He pointed a malignant finger at me. I’m goin’ to be some use to this ruddy country yet. Just you wait and see!’
Then he coughed, and peered at us suspiciously, and held the candle-flame away from his face. We could still hear him muttering names as he lumbered off down the hall to his room.
A SIR HENRY MERRIVALE MYSTERY
‘From its first line “She Died a Lady” grips. The
mystery and its solution are both masterly’
The Times Literary Supplement
‘Very few detective stories baffle me nowadays, but
Mr Carr’s always do’
Agatha Christie
A suicide pact was just the sort of notion that would appeal to Rita Wainwright. Her notorious love affair with the young American actor, Barry Sullivan, was flamboyant enough to warrant a dramatic ending, so when the two of them vanished over a cliff one rainy night, leaving only a farewell note for Rita’s husband and a pair of footprints to the edge, no one doubted that it was suicide. No one, that is, but Doctor Luke, Rita’s old family doctor and one of the few people in the seaside village of Lyncombe who genuinely liked her. When amateur detective Sir Henry Merrivale, who is in the district having his portrait done by a local artist, agrees to investigate, the questions start piling up. But what of it? Are the doctor’s doubts without merit, or was there a more sinister plot at play? It takes the blustering, rampaging H.M. to solve this baffling mystery.
T H E L A N G T A I L P R E S S