Pentrip’s fury quickly subsided. Ashen-faced he merely requested that the document be retyped, and feebly asked Brenda’s pardon for his outburst. His haggard appearance so touched her that she not only forgive him, but would probably have given herself to him on the spot if he had only made the appropriate advances. However, sunk deep in macabre speculation, he failed to take advantage of either the situation or the girl.
Alone he somberly listed a sequence of events on his scratch pad:
1) Miss Coule had outlined the terms of her will
2) He had reached an accommodation with Roger Coule.
3) Miss Coule had died intestate and Roger had inherited.
4) Miss Coule had added to her will.
5) Roger had disappeared.
6) Miss Coule had added Roger’s wife to her will.
7) ??????
Pentrip preferred not to speculate on what “a permanent residence with constant attendance” might betoken, but guessed it to be less than agreeable to the legatee. Extending the steps he had numbered to 8) and even 9), the solicitor forecast that anyone else benefiting from Miss Coule’s misapplied estate might be due for a nasty shock. Roger and his wife had been the chief beneficiaries—but Hugo Pentrip himself had received a welcome moiety. He wished now to have nothing more to do with the money: if possible to return it.
He suspected he might never talk to Roger Coule again, but that made an interview with Inga Coule even more imperative.
He discovered her, spade in hand, at the bottom of the garden before she had time to take evasive action. She had just uncovered what was left of Roger Coule. “To make sure he was still there,” she explained simply afterwards.
Pentrip glanced into the disturbed grave and instantly regretted the impulse. Professional instincts asserting themselves, he hastily retired behind an unkempt laurel to avoid being sick in front of a client. The worms and Miss Coule’s nephew had evidently got on well together; though the advantage had gone to the worms.
Unsteadily Pentrip assisted Inga Coule into the house and poured out a large brandy for her—with an even larger one for himself. Stunned silence reigned until, two brandies later, Inga began to speak.
“I’m glad it’s over,” she said. “At least it’s off my mind. I suppose the police will have to be told now?”
Pentrip nodded. “How?” he whispered.
“With the spade,” said Inga.
Pentrip’s lips moved silently. “Why?” he mouthed.
Sunlight reflected from an expanse of mirror brilliantly lit—House and Garden decor. In spite of the brandy Inga Coule sat stiffly upright on the strikingly reupholstered Victorian chaise lounge. Pentrip faced her from a severe pine chair. He had automatically assumed the expression usually produced when noting testamentary dispositions. On this occasion it encouraged confession. Inga sighed, then words streamed from her.
“She began to follow me about,” she said. No need to inquire who. “Especially in the garden. Roger must have been aware too, because he became very jumpy. I didn’t mention her to him and he didn’t mention her to me. I don’t know whether he wanted to spare my feelings, or whether he knew that I knew so there was no point in talking.
“We had discussed the will in the early days, and how his aunt had never quite got around to signing it. I gathered as our solicitor you were in some way connected, but Roger never went into details. He could be very cagey at times. The old girl was dying anyway and we certainly did nothing to hasten her end—so why should she haunt us?
“Lately Roger had been on about putting a bird bath, or some such outrage in the middle of the lawn. I was completely against the idea—I’d as soon have had stone pixies. We even exchanged words. He seemed to have gone completely dotty about birds—stringing up coconuts, peanuts, lumps of suet… Every morning he sprinkled crumbs on the lawn. He even suggested bird houses round the fences, but I laughed at him.
“I think it was just after that argument when I began to sense her near. At first there were merely quick glimpses—behind the hedge, for instance, hiding among leaves. Then she became more sure of herself, lurking behind me while I worked in the garden. Even though I couldn’t see her I knew she was there: I could feel her peering over my shoulder. She began to talk: if you could call it talking. No words. She twittered like a sparrow or a starling. How can I be certain it wasn’t a sparrow or a starling chirping away? Some things one knows. Working in the garden I’d hear birds all day and take no notice—after all one expects to hear birds in the garden—but I didn’t need to be told when she was holding forth: the prickling at the back of my neck warned me. She wanted something. Twitter, twitter, twitter. Well, if it was a bird-bath in the middle of my newly-laid turf, she’d have to twitter on. No baths, no feeding tables, no tit-houses. There are limits.
“Wraith, spook, essence—call it what you like—reached the limit when it followed me into my garden house. Have you seen that rustic arbor where I store the tools? I was just putting away the fork and rake when the thing materialized in the doorway. Twitter, twitter, twitter. I turned round, facing up to her, and this time she didn’t even have the decency to fade. She stood there nodding and her outrageous old hat bobbing. Twitter, twitter. I asked what she wanted. Twitter, twitter, like a robin. I told her there was nothing here. She was dead, wasn’t she? Why didn’t she get back where she belonged? Twitter, twitter. You can’t hurt a ghost, can you? I had to show who owned the place now. I picked up the first thing handy and hit her with it. It was only a gesture. I knew I couldn’t hurt a ghost, but I hit her. With the spade. In the middle of that ridiculous hat.
“She still didn’t fade, though. She crumpled. Twittering all the way down. And where the edge of the spade had sliced into her head, blood was spurting. Can a ghost bleed? As she lay there, giving a last few feeble tweets, her face melted and changed. Gray hair into black. Parchment cheek into tanned skin with a little moustache. Her staring eyes into his staring eyes. Until it was Roger lying there—bloody and dead.”
Hugo Pentrip made a feeble gesture. What use were words?
“I know I should have ’phoned the police,” she went on. “It was an accident. Anybody can have an accident. But when I tried to rehearse my story it became more and more confused. How could I explain why I hit anybody with a spade in the first place—whether I knew it was Roger or not? How could I have mistaken my husband for an old lady? Especially when I had been to her funeral. While I talked to myself I tied myself in knots, so I had no illusions about the chances I stood with the police. All this time a tiny voice at the back of my mind was telling me to bury him. So I did.
“I hung on for days, knowing what lay behind the laurel bushes. I daren’t see anyone or even answer the ’phone in case I should be asked where he was. I tried to tell myself the—misunderstanding—hadn’t really happened. Until I began to wonder whether it had really happened. That’s when I uncovered him again. How could I have made such a mistake? Roger never looked like his aunt.”
Pentrip made consoling noises. Inga Coule sat back at last and closed her dark-ringed eyes.
“I must have been mad,” she murmured. “But I don’t feel mad.”
Pentrip cleared his throat. “For the purpose of your defense, I would suggest that you remain a little mad. Diminished responsibility.”
Inga almost smiled. “I wasn’t responsible at all. She arranged everything, didn’t she? Even my digging him up again for you to see. Will you come with me to the police?”