Thursday
On Thursday morning, Cleo and Dorothy made a very early
start, intending to get to Brighton, talk to Mrs Riddle and return all in one
day.
“What a pity we won’t have time for any sight-seeing, Cleo.
You’ll love Brighton. It’s one of our most fashionable and cultivated resorts;
the playground of royalty in the old days.”
“Who says we won’t have enough time? We’ll get that
interview over fast, and then find a nice restaurant for lunch before looking
around,” said Cleo, who was being rather optimistic, seeing that they did not even
know if Mrs Riddle would be at home.
***
They were in luck, but if Cleo and Dorothy had thought they
could identify Sylvie by comparing her looks with those of Mrs Riddle’s sister,
they were in for a surprise. Mrs Riddle and her sister were identical twins.
They looked like two peas in a pod and the two sleuths’ astonishment was
undisguised.
“Which is who?” Dorothy wanted to know.
“I’m Carla,” said one, “and I’m Sara” said the other.
Cleo mused that they could not just be cousins if they
looked so alike, so that theory was discounted forthwith.
Dorothy turned to Carla.
“You’re Mrs Riddle, aren’t you?” she said. “Your hair is
done in a bun like it was at the villa.”
“I do my hair like that sometimes,” said Sara. “I didn’t
have time this morning.”
At that moment Sylvie entered the room and went straight to Sara.
“Kettle’s on, Mum,” she said.
“Have you come especially from Scotland, Mrs…erm
Dorothy did not know the sister’s surname.
“Miss Riddle, said Carla. “Neither of us married.”
“Well, Sara Riddle, we must have a talk,” said Cleo.
“You can call me Carla,” said Miss Riddle. “Get the tea,
love,” she said to Sylvie, who went to the kitchen to do just that.
“Sylvie doesn’t know,” hissed the real Carla Riddle.
“I don’t know either,” said Dorothy. “Who is who, for heaven’s
sake?”
“Doesn’t know what?”
“What you’re here for, Miss Hartley.”
“Which means that you do know, Mrs Riddle?”
“I can guess.”
“Is it possible that Sylvie doesn’t know who her mother is?”
said Dorothy, now quite indignant that the murder of Dr Marble could put everyone
in such a predicament. “She’s a grown woman! She has a right to know.”
“I don’t suppose anyone knows who her father is, either,”
said Cleo.
“Not really,” said Carla.
“Are you sure about that, Sara?”
“No.”
“It is Dr Marble, isn’t it?” said Dorothy, whose instinct
was driving her on. She had taken a dislike to Mrs Riddle and could not
understand why Cleo was so diplomatic with her. There was something underhand
about the woman.
Mrs Sara Riddle struggled with herself. Not only had she
handed over her child to her sister, she had also kept quiet all those years
about her relationship with Dr Marble. Carla Riddle did not know for sure who
the child’s father was. Now Silvie was grown-up, she should know, surely,
thought Dorothy. She thought the Riddles were taking the identical twin joke
too far.
“The affair ended a long time ago,” Sara volunteered. “Henry
financed the child’s upbringing, but wanted nothing to do with her.”
“So he knew she was his child, did she?” said Dorothy.
“I was never unfaithful to him,” said Sara.
“I assume he was too respectable to admit to being the
father of an illegitimate daughter,” said Dorothy.
“And too much of a snob to own up,” said Carla bitterly. So
she knew everything. Dorothy wondered if Sara knew that. “Anyway, solicitors don’t marry housemaids,” Carla
added, making her words sound like a quote.
“Not so as you’d notice,” said Dorothy.
“But why are you torturing my sister with all this?” said Carla.
“It’s such a long time ago and he’s dead now, isn’t he?”
“But his beneficiaries are alive and could be in danger.”
“Oh no!” said Sara. “What about my daughter?”
Was that the first time she had admitted to the relationship?
“It should have been a warning,” said Dorothy. After all,
you were knocked out and your head put in
the gas oven, weren’t you, Sara?”
“Is that true,” said Carla. “I thought you were
exaggerating.”
“Unfortunately it is,” said the housekeeper Riddle.
“Do you think that was an attempt on her life?” Carla asked
the sleuths.
“I’m sure it was,” said Cleo.
“I thought I was just in the way of a burglar trying to
escape,” said Mrs Riddle.
“Be thankful your daughter was here in Brighton, Sara.”
“Harry doesn’t know she’s my daughter, Miss Hartley.”
“Are you sure?” Cleo asked. “He told us that he knew about a
daughter during his questioning.”
Mrs Riddle’s face clouded over.
***
To cut all the speculation short, the point is that he thinks that he’s going to
inherit the villa, and he won’t want to share,” said Cleo.
“I wonder how Harry found out that Sylvie is Dr Marble’s
daughter,” Dorothy whispered to Cleo while the sisters got the table ready.
Sylvie came back into the room bearing a big tray full of
tea things and a plate of cream scones in time to hear Dorothy thinking aloud.
“I told him,” she said.
“You did what?” Sara and Carla said in one voice.
“I told him.”
“But how did you know, Sylvie?” Sara asked.
“My father told me.”
Now everyone was shocked.
“And you never said anything, Sylvie. When was that?” said Sara.
“Remember that time I drove you back to the villa?”
“Yes, but…”
“Well, my father thanked me for bringing you, and then he
told me that he would always take care of me.”
“That made me say ‘like the father I never had’. Then he
told me I did have a father who had looked after me all those years.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” said Sara.
“I was shocked. Then he told me the whole story.”
“Are you going to tell us, Sylvie?” Dorothy asked.
“It’s all very simple,” said Sylvie. “You see, my father was
already married. Did you know that, mother?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Sara.
That’s why he couldn’t marry you. It wasn’t shame at all,
but because he did not want anyone to know that his wife was in a mental
hospital. If we want to talk about shame, he was ashamed of that.”
“It certainly counts as shame in my book,” said Cleo.
“I didn’t know he was married. I would never have carried on
with a married man,” said Sara.
“What a dreadful pickle the highly respectable Dr Marble was
in,” said Dorothy.
“My father’s wife had committed murder. She had murdered her
newly born child,” said Sylvie. ”She was pronounced mad and put away for life.”
“Good God! Infanticide!” said Carla, shocked to the core.
“He could have got a divorce,” said Cleo. “Surely he did not
want to stay married to the woman who had killed their child.”
“Oh Cleo, don’t be so naïve,” rebuked Dorothy. “We don’t
know if it was his child. Maybe she had been unfaithful and he had said to her
‘either the child goes, or I go’”.
“Where is the woman now, Sylvie?” Cleo asked.
“She’s dead,” said Sylvie. “Apparently she committed
suicide.”
“Did your father tell you that, too?” asked Cleo.
“No. I did some investigating, Miss Hartley.”
“Did you challenge your father with that knowledge at any
time?” Dorothy asked.
“No. There was no point.”
“But you could have told me or your mother,” said Carla. “It
was dreadful secret to carry around all this time.”
“I decided to leave things as they were since my father had
arranged things with my mother so that she would always have his support.
That’s why I thought telling Harry being an illegitimate child of Henry Marble was
not out of the ordinary. My father was a moral wreck, and Harry is my
half-brother, after all.”
“But it was big mistake, Sylvie,” said Cleo. “Harry wants
that villa and he is prepared to kill for it.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You’d better,” said Dorothy.
“But he is not entitled to inherit anything,” said Sylvie.
“He is if he’s the sole relative,” said Dorothy.
“Dr Marble was dead before he could be forced to change his
will,” said Cleo. “Harry is not in the valid will. That’s why we think he went
to the villa to plead with his uncle, who was really his father and was ashamed
of that, but for a different reason.“
“He thought it was his uncle,” said Silvie. “He told me that
his father’s brother had an affair. Now they were all dead and he was the only
relative remaining. But he was not in my father’s will.”
“No. We believe that Harry was the result of Dr Marble
seducing his sister,” said Dorothy.
“Harry got mad and struck his father with an alabaster
statuette. He collapsed and died of a head injury,” said Cleo.
“How do you know it was like that?” Sara wanted to know.
“We don’t know, but we think that’s what must have
happened,” said Dorothy.
“Where is Harry now?” asked Carla Riddle.
“He’s under arrest, but he can’t be kept in custody unless serious
charges are brought against him, and for that we need more proof. He has denied
everything so far, and a good lawyer could get him parole,” said Cleo. “That’s
why you must be on your guard.”
“Mr Hurley will let you know if Harry is freed,” said
Dorothy.
“Who is that?” Sylvie wanted to know.
“He’s the detective on the case,” explained Dorothy.
“So who are you?”
“His friends and private investigators.” said Dorothy. “He
knows we’re here.”
“If Harry is freed and turns up, don’t let him into the
house,” said Cleo. “Call the police immediately. Say he’s a stalker. Say
anything to get him taken away because if he comes here, it’s to kill. He
cannot inherit all Dr Marble’s fortune while Sylvie is still alive.”
“I’m so glad you came,” said Sara.
“So now I have two mothers,” said Sylvie.
“You always did have, dear,” said Carla.
“Mission accomplished,” said Dorothy after they had all
exchanged embraces and promised to get together again on a more joyful
occasion.
***
“I enjoyed the scones, but I need some fresh air and a steak
now,” said Cleo. “That really was a dramatic interlude.”
“You can say that again. Turn right here, Cleo, and we can
drive along the sea front….”
***
Cleo and Dorothy did not get home until late evening after
an exhausting day in Brighton, so Cleo could only call Gary next morning with
her report.
It was much as he had expected, except that he, too, was
surprised that Mrs Riddle had a confusingly identical twin sister. Sylvie had
known more than Carla and her mother. Cleo had warned the three women that
danger was brewing if not enough proof could be found to keep Harry locked up. Sylvie
had given the impression that she was on fairly good terms with him, but she
would heed the warning.
Cleo was sure that the housekeeper was relieved that
everything was out in the open, and thought it agreed with the theory that Harry
had gone to the villa to persuade his uncle who was in fact his father and must
have told him so, to put him in his will. Dr Marble probably refused because
Harry was an ex-convict. The guy lost his temper and killed his father.
“So Dr Marble had a couple of skeletons in his cupboard,
Ladies,” said Gary. “Do you think Mrs Riddle had a hand in Dr Marble’s death?”
“She might think it was justified, Gary,” said Cleo. “she
did not know that Dr Marble was married. He did not explain why he could not
marry her.”
“And why was that?”Gary asked.
“Some weird sense of loyalty. She was sent down for life for
killing their child.”
I don’t know when Mrs Riddle found out, mor even if did, If
she did know, she was prepared to look after him on his terms, which included
not having anything to do with their daughter’s upbringing. I’ve no idea when
their relationship deteriorated to a state of master and servant, but presumably
it did.”
“Is it worth looking into the deranged wife story?” said
Gary.
“Silvie Riddle investigated and discovered that the woman
was dead. For curiosity’s sake I’d like to know if Mrs Marble killed her child
because it was conceived in a marital affair she had had. Knowing now what Dr
Marble was really like, it might have been in his character to be offensive and
even to threaten to betray her to the police, a threat he must have carried out
Somehow her suicide was inevitable if
she was guilty, and even more so if she was innocent. There must be police
records somewhere.”
“Or she was murdered,” said Gary.
“What would be the point?”
“What if Dr Marble avenged his child?” said Gary.
“That sounded like a Dorothy hunch. I’m sure no one doubted
the suicide. She hanged herself,” said Cleo.
***
“Should I worry about the baby you are carrying, Cleo?”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll call it Peggy. I’m sure it’s going to be a girl.”
“You can’t possibly know.”
“I can feel it in my bones.”
“I’d like it to be a Hurley,” said Cleo. “But it might have
to be a Jones. I’ll try to make it a Hartley. But I’ll have to sayRobert is the
father, won’t I?”
“I can’t think why. I’ll claim it.”
“How?”
“She’ll have my toes.”
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