Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

The Inheritance by Betty Rowlands

Though we have already published two short stories by Betty Rowlands, we include now her first work of fiction, a story that won the Sunday Express-Veuve Cliquot short story contest in 1988, and was published that year in the U. K...

It was a perfect summer afternoon in rural England. Birds sang, roses bloomed, couples sipped champagne and strolled beneath stately trees; well-bred laughter echoed across velvet lawns. Outwardly, the scene was idyllic, but to Nicholas, leaning on the parapet of the stone-flagged terrace overlooked by the magnificent southern facade of Lensbury Court, the all-pervading sense of opulence was as acid eating into the soul. By rights, he thought gloomily, he should be the owner of a property such as this. And as he brooded on his own dismal financial situation, there formed in his mind a simple proposition: since Great-Aunt Honoria was the sole obstacle between him and his inheritance, Great-Aunt Honoria would have to go.

Honoria Stacey’s industrialist husband had bequeathed her a vast fortune. Now eighty-five and in frail health, she spent most of her time in her rambling mansion flat in West London, attended by McPhee, a dour Scotswoman who had been her companion for many years. Nicholas was her sole surviving relative but, sadly, she had never shown him any particular affection. On the contrary, she was contemptuous of his lifestyle and scathing about his disinclination for work. For his part, however, he prided himself on his tolerant nature. He bore no malice. From the moment he learned of the untimely demise of his one remaining second cousin, he devoted himself heart and soul to the welfare of his elderly kinswoman.

It was disappointing that his attentions were so little appreciated. Despite his frequent visits and assurances of devotion, to say nothing of money that he could ill afford spent on flowers and chocolates, Honoria treated him with a blend of suspicion and parsimony. None of his hints about the inadequacy of his means evoked so much as an offer to pay for the taxi that brought him regularly to her door. Still, when she was in a good mood, she let it be known that she accepted him, albeit reluctantly, as her natural heir.

While his fellow guests drifted and gossiped around him, Nicholas considered possible ways of disposing of Great-Aunt Honoria. He might beat in her brains with a blunt instrument. There had been a number of reports in the press recently of elderly people being attacked in their homes and robbed of their possessions. If he were to ransack the place and pinch a few things it would seem like burglary — but the noise would inevitably bring the cat-eared McPhee rushing to the scene and he’d be caught red-handed. His stomach turned over at the unintended double meaning; he always became queasy at the sight, or even the thought, of bloodshed.

Strangulation seemed on first consideration to be a distinct possibility. He visualized his hands locked round Great-Aunt Honoria’s stringy throat and the sensation was not unpleasant. He dwelt on it for a while before dismissing the idea as impractical. Despite her age and her dicky heart — her doctor was always warning him that she might pop off at any minute and he had been living in hopes for some considerable time — Honoria was a spirited old bird, quite capable of putting up a struggle and bringing McPhee flying to the rescue. Suffocation with a pillow in her sleep? That would mean being a house guest, and since she never invited him to spend a night under her roof, smothering would also seem to be out.

Shooting he dismissed without a thought. He had no gun and in any case firearms terrified him. Also, there would be the same problems with noise and blood that had made him reject the blunt instrument. It was all very difficult.

“More champagne, sir?” A waiter was tilting a bottle above Nicholas’s empty glass. “Sir Wilfred will shortly be proposing the toast.”

Nicholas took a long swig of the cool, dry wine. That was good. The fellow had said something about a toast — what was the occasion? Ah, yes, Emma Lensbury’s birthday. He hardly knew the girl, but he’d been invited as a friend of a friend. A crowd of them had been driven down in a specially chartered minibus that morning, which was just as well as he’d never have made it on his own. He’d spent most of the journey with his eyes closed, still a bit hung over from the previous evening. A pity; he wasn’t really doing justice to a first-rate vintage champagne.

It was while he was contemplating the dancing bubbles in his glass that he found inspiration. Poison! On his next visit to Great-Aunt Honoria he would take a bottle of her favourite wine and slip in a dose of something lethal. It would, of course, have to be tasteless, without smell, and completely invisible. Almost immediately, however, his brain hit another snag. He knew hardly anything about poisons. Ratsbane and weed-killers, so he’d read somewhere, had painful and protracted effects on their victims. Apart from the off-chance that if Honoria were taken violently ill she would be rushed to hospital, where there was a good chance of her being resuscitated, he didn’t like to think of the old trout writhing in agony. He had a certain grudging admiration for her and he would prefer her end to be peaceful — but he’d like it to be soon.

He caught the waiter’s eye and got another refill. His brain always worked better after a few drinks. His host, in a rambling and interminable speech, was urging the company to wish his little girl a happy birthday. Nicholas applauded and hear-heared with everyone else. He drained his glass and held it out for more.

The solution to his problem came in a flash. Sitting in the bathroom cupboard in his London flat was a small bottle of something a medical student pal had given him long ago when a favourite dog was dying. He couldn’t go to the vet because he already owed him a packet, so his pal managed to get hold of something that could be administered in milk. Old Rex would just drop off to sleep and never know a thing, the chap had promised. As it had happened, Rex had died naturally that very day and the bottle was never opened. Once or twice, Nicholas recalled, he’d thought about chucking it out or giving it back, but somehow he never had. Now he knew why. Fate had intended it for Great-Aunt Honoria.

Back at home, Nicholas rummaged in the bathroom cabinet. The bottle of poison was still there, hidden away behind half-empty containers of aftershave and toothpaste. He uncorked it and gingerly sniffed at the contents. There was no smell. He tipped a few grains of the white powder into his palm and considered checking it for taste but decided against. There was no point in making himself ill; he’d been assured that Rover wouldn’t detect it, and a dog’s sense of taste was bound to be more acute than that of an elderly woman. He’d have to take a chance on that.

Introducing the poison into Honoria’s wineglass was going to be difficult. Nicholas spent hours practicing with a similar bottle filled with table salt, trying to uncork and empty it one-handed in a single, deft movement. It was tricky but he persevered. He also rehearsed what he would say to her, what excuse he would offer for suddenly turning up with a bottle of her favourite wine. It wasn’t something he was in the habit of doing — for one thing, her tastes were too expensive. She might suspect his motives if he wasn’t very careful; she had that sort of mind.

At last, confident that he had thought of everything, Nicholas set out on his final, fateful visit. McPhee, unsmiling as ever, ushered him into the stuffy sitting room where Honoria was sitting in her high-backed chair, a wizened, sharp-featured doll who accepted his kiss unemotionally and jabbed with her stick at the holdall he was carrying.

“What have you got there?” she demanded in the thin, throaty voice that reminded him of crackling brown paper.

“A very special treat for a very special aunt.” He pretended not to notice her scornful grimace as he took out two delicate, long-stemmed wineglasses, carefully wrapped in tea towels.

“Found these in the Portobello Road. Nice, aren’t they? I thought we’d christen them together — I know you enjoy a tipple!”

“I hope it’s better than some of the stuff you’ve brought in the past,” sniffed Honoria. “In spite of the quantity you tip down your throat, you’ve never learned how to recognise a good vintage.”

Nicholas winced. Another dig at his lifestyle. Any minute now there’d be some reference to his extravagance and lack of gainful employment. Well, he’d show her. If he couldn’t earn a living, at least he could organise a dying.

Aloud, he said, “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at this one.” He unveiled the bottle and displayed it with a flourish.

Honoria scrutinised the label, slit-eyed. “Not a very good year,” she commented. “Anyway, we’ll give it a try.”

Nicholas went to the sideboard and uncorked the bottle. He poured some wine into each glass and handed one to his aunt, setting the other down on the small table beside her chair. He went back to fetch the olives. He’d remembered just in time that she always declared she couldn’t enjoy a drink without them.

Honoria held her glass against the light, head tilted, lips pursed. She sniffed the contents, nose delicately wrinkled as if reluctant to register approval. Nicholas raised his own glass.

“Cheers!” he said, and drank. He considered for a moment, frowning. “I’m afraid you’re right — it wasn’t a terribly good year,” he admitted grudgingly. He held his breath as his aunt rolled a mouthful round her tongue and, after what seemed an eternity, swallowed. She repeated the exercise; to his surprise, she nodded in approval.

“That’s where you’re wrong!” she declared. “It’s better than I expected. You’ve got something right for once!” She began to tackle the olives, looking almost good-humoured.

“Oh well, you know more about these things than I do,” said Nicholas ingratiatingly. Perverse old cow, he thought, she always contradicted him and he had to play the creep and go along with her. Still, he might as well keep it up till the end. He wondered how long it would take. He emptied his own glass and fetched the bottle. “A spot more?”

She nodded, still gobbling olives. As he poured, he glanced over his shoulder at her. She was smiling, something she seldom did in his presence. It was an unpleasant smile and he felt uneasy as he sat down again.

His second glass tasted better. Last night’s bender must have jaded his palate. That, and a certain nervousness. Normally, in spite of his aunt’s jibes, he could tell a decent wine from a dud one. This wasn’t bad after all. He tossed it back.

Honoria was still smiling. He wished she wouldn’t; it wasn’t like her.

“I’m glad you came today,” she said, holding out her glass.

Nicholas beamed and poured generous refills. “It’s always a pleasure to come and see you, dear Aunt!”

“Rubbish!” She bared her teeth, like a terrier about to snap. “You don’t care a fig for me — you’re simply after my money!”

Nicholas jumped at the unexpected attack and his glass slipped from his fingers. He grovelled under the table to retrieve it and emerged flushed and panting.

“Clumsy fool!” sniffed Honoria. “Ring for McPhee to come and mop up.”

“No, it’s all right, I can do it.” He went down on all fours and scrubbed frantically at the carpet with his handkerchief. The last thing he wanted at this moment was the presence of a third party. “There, it’s all right now, no stain at all... good job it’s white and not red...” He scrambled to his feet and grabbed at the back of his chair, conscious that he wasn’t feeling quite himself. His heart was thumping and his head swimming.

Honoria gave one of her cackling laughs. “Didn’t like that, did we?”

“That wasn’t fair, Aunt Honoria,” he protested. “You shouldn’t say things like that, even in fun.”

“I wasn’t speaking in fun. It’s the plain truth and you know it.”

“No, really...”He put a finger inside his collar and waggled his head, trying to clear it. “Could we have some air, it’s getting awfully close in here.” Without waiting for permission, he went to the window, opened it, and took a couple of deep breaths. He had some difficulty in getting back to his chair. Shouldn’t drink so fast, he told himself unhappily. Especially after last night. Too many benders lately.

“I thought you should know,” Honoria continued, “that I have disinherited you. If I were to leave you my money you’d only squander it, so I’ve made a new will. I’m leaving an annuity to McPhee and the rest will go to charity.” Her eyes sparkled with malicious glee as he gaped at her, dumbfounded. “So you see,” she went on, “you’ve been to all this trouble for nothing.”

Nicholas was devastated. Had all his careful scheming been a waste of time? “I don’t understand,” he faltered. “What do you mean — what trouble?”

“Poisoning my wine,” said Honoria calmly, taking the last olive.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” said Nicholas, trying to sound indignant. He passed a hand over his eyes. The old witch! She’d rumbled him!

Well, he wasn’t sorry. Even if he wasn’t getting her money, she deserved what was coming to her after being so stingy towards him all these years. Not that he was going to give her the satisfaction of owning up. He rose from his chair, swaying slightly.

“I’m leaving,” he declared. “Next time we meet I shall expect an apolly... an apology!”

“Next time we meet — that’s a g-good one!” cackled Honoria, sounding as tipsy as he felt.

A sudden dart of logic pierced the confusion in his head. “If you thought I’d spiked your wine, you wouldn’t have drunk it!” he said triumphantly.

Honoria leaned forward in her chair. With her shrivelled, blue-veined hands she lifted the two empty wineglasses from the table, switched their positions, and set them down again. “But I didn’t drink it.” Her voice was a soft growl, like a cat with a mouse. “You did.”

“Good God!” croaked Nicholas. “When did you...?”