“I was glad to.”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t in any shape to talk to them. Were they pretty bad?”
I wondered what he meant by that, what he wanted to know. I shook my head. “Just routine questions.”
“I hope there wasn’t any talk of ... of suicide.” He looked at me sharply.
“No, it wasn’t mentioned. They accepted the fact it was an accident.” I paused: then I decided to let him in on Miss Lung’s dereliction.
He nodded grimly when I told him what she’d said to the police. “I already know,” he said quietly. “They asked me about it and I told them I sincerely doubted Mildred had any intention of killing herself. It’s not a very sensible way, is it? Drowning in front of a half-dozen people, several of whom are good swimmers.” I was surprised at his coolness. If he was upset by her death, he certainly didn’t show it. A little chilled, I joined the others by the fireplace.
Dinner was not gala. Because Brexton was with us we didn’t know quite what to talk about. Everybody was thinking about the same thing yet it would’ve been bad form to talk about Mildred in front of her husband; he of course was the most relaxed of the lot.
It was interesting to note how the different guests reacted to the situation.
Mary Western Lung was deliberately cheery, full of “Book-Chat,” discussing at some length a visit she’d once paid Francine Karpin Lock, another noted penwoman, in the latter’s New Orleans’ house. “The spirit of graciousness. And her tablet Ah, what viands she offers the humblest guest!” This was followed by a close new-critical analysis of her works as compared to those of another great authoress, Taylor Caldwell. I gathered they were neck and neck, artistically speaking, that is.
Mrs. Veering spoke of the Hamptons, of local gossip, of who was leaving her husband for what other man: the sort of thing which, next to children and servant troubles, most occupies the conversation of Easthamptoners.
Fletcher Claypoole said not a word; he was pale and intense and I could see his sister was anxious. She watched him intently all through dinner and though she and I and Brexton carried on a triangular conversation about painting, her attention was uneasily focused on her brother.
Out of deference to the situation, Mrs. Veering decided against bridge though why I’ll never know. I should’ve thought any diversion would have been better than this glum company. I began to study the clock over the mantel. I decided that exactly ten o’clock I’d excuse myself; go upstairs; change, sneak back down and walk the half mile to the Club and Liz and a night of sexual bliss as Marie C. Stopes would say.
My sexual bliss was postponed, however, by the rude arrival of the police.
The butler, quite shaken, ushered a sloppy small man, a detective Greaves, and two plain-clothes men into the drawing room.
Consternation would be a mild word to describe the effect they made.
“Mrs. Veering?” Greaves looked at Miss Lung.
“I am Rose Clayton Veering,” said herself, rising shakily from an armchair and crossing the room with marvelous controclass="underline" I’d counted her drinks that evening: she was not only loaded but primed.
“I’m detective Greaves, ma’am. Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”
Miss Lung squeaked disconcertingly; it sounded like a mouse and startled us all. I glanced at Brexton and saw him shut his eyes with resignation.
“Pray, follow me in here, Mr. Graves.”
“Greaves.” He followed her into the alcove: his two men withdrew to the hall. The guests, myself included, sat in a stunned circle. No one said anything. Claypoole poured himself a drink. Miss Lung looked as though she were strangling. Allie watched her brother as usual and Brexton remained motionless in his chair, his face without expression, his eyes shut.
From the acove there was a murmur of talk. I could hear Mrs. Veering’s voice, indignant and emphatic, while the detective’s voice was stern . . . what they said, though, we could not hear. We found out soon enough.
Mrs. Veering, her face flaming with anger, appeared in the door of the alcove accompanied by the policeman who looked a bit sheepish.
“Mr. Graves has something to say to us . . . something so ridiculous that . . .”
“Greaves, ma’am.” He interrupted her pleasantly. “Please sit down,” he said, indicating a chair. She did as he directed, controlling herself with some effort.
The detective looked at us thoughtfully. He was a sandy-haired little man with red-rimmed eyes and a pale putty face: he looked as though he never slept. But he seemed to have the situation, such as it was, well in hand.
“I hate to come barging in on you like this,” he said softly, apologetically. “I’ve got a list of names and I wish, as I read them off, you’d answer to your name so I’ll know which is which.” He ran through our names and we answered, Miss Lung startling us again with her shrill mouse-in-terrible-agony squeak.
“Thanks a lot,” he said when he’d finished roll call. He was careful not to stare at any one of us too hard or too long. He kept his eyes for the most part on the doorway to the hall.
“Now I won’t keep you in the dark any longer. There is a chance that Mrs. Brexton was murdered this morning.”
Not a sound greeted this news. We stared back at him, too stunned to comment.
He was disappointed not to have made a different effect. I could see he’d expected some kind of a rise, a significant outburst: instead he got deep silence. This gang was smarter than he’d thought, than I’d thought. I glanced rapidly at the faces but could see nothing more than intense interest in any of them.
When this had been allowed to sink in, he went on softly, “We’re not sure of course. It’s a queer kind of case. This afternoon an autopsy was performed and it was discovered that the deceased died by drowning; there was no question of a heart attack or of any other physical failure. Her internal organs were sound and undiseased. She was apparently in good physical condition. . .
“Then how could she’ve drowned like that since she was a first-rate swimmer?" Claypoole’s voice was tense with strain; it came surprisingly clear across the room.
Greaves looked at him with mild interest. “That’s why we’re here, Mr... Claypoole. There was apparently no reason for her to drown so quickly so near shore with three people attempting rescue. . .
“Unless she wanted to,” Miss Lung’s voice was complacent; she was beginning to recover her usual composure and confidence.
“That is a possibility ... I hope a probability. It is the alternative we’d like to accept. Otherwise, I’m afraid we’re stuck with a murder by party or parties unknown.”
There it was. Mrs. Veering rallied first. “Mr. Greaves, this is all supposition on your part, and very dangerous too. Regardless of what you might think, there is no evidence that my niece wanted to drown herself nor is there the faintest possibility anybody murdered her. She was in a peculiar mental state as the result of a nervous breakdown. ... I told you all that a few minutes ago ... in her condition she was quite apt to lose her head, to drown in that terrible undertow.” I was surprised at Mrs. Veering’s sharpness. She was completely sobered now and all her usual vagueness and nonsense had been replaced by a steely clarity, and anger.
“An intelligent analysis.” Greaves nodded approvingly, as though a favorite pupil had come through. “That was our opinion too when the death was reported this morning. Almost every day there’s something like this in these parts, a sudden drowning. Unfortunately the autopsy revealed something odd. It seems that before going in swimming, immediately after breakfast, Mrs. Brexton took four sleeping pills ... or was given four sleeping pills.”