Thou Shell of Death by Nicholas Blake

verborum
, I flatter myself. And exceedingly well connected, too, I gather: one of the Irish O’Briens, you know—’
    Lord Marlinworth, after a shaky start, was now well into his stride and settled down to obituary. At lunch the news was broken to Lady Marlinworth. Once over the first shock, she behaved with a calmness and practicality surprising in one of such brittle, Dresden-china appearance. ‘I must go over at once and see that nice Cavendish gel. If she feels able to see anyone. Though I fear she will be quite prostrate’.
    Nigel smiled inwardly at the idea of the tough little explorer being ‘prostrate.’
    ‘Why should
she
be particularly upset?’ he asked.
    Lady Marlinworth shook a delicate, jewelled forefinger at him.
    ‘Oh, you men, you men! You never notice anything. I may be an old woman, but I can at least see when a gel is head over heels in love. Such a charming gel, too. Not a beauty, perhaps, and a little eccentric in her ways. Bringing a parrot down to dinner is not quite—Still,
autres temps, autres moeurs
; and one must allow some latitude to a young person who spends her life wandering about amongst savages. In my young days it would not have been encouraged at all. Where was I? Oh, yes, the gel was in love with poor Mr O’Brien. A very suitable match it would have been, too. It was really most naughty and inconsiderate of him to go and get killed like that. The poor gel will be quite heartbroken.’
    ‘Elizabeth always has been a—hum—inveterate matchmaker. Haven’t you, my dear?’
    ‘I say, Aunt,’ said Nigel, ‘how do you mean “go and get killed like that”? The doctor has no doubt it was suicide.’
    ‘The man’s a fool, then,’ said the old lady spiritedly. ‘I’ve never heard such wicked nonsense. It was an accident. Mr O’Brien would no more kill himself than Herbert would.’
    Herbert started, then smoothed his moustache with some complacence. Lady Marlinworth went on:
    ‘I shall call on Miss Cavendish this afternoon. Is there anything else you would like me to do, Nigel?’
    ‘Yes, yes, there jolly well is. You said at dinner last night you had seen O’Brien before, or someone like him. Now I want you to try and remember where. Please. It’s really important.’
    ‘Very well, Nigel, I’ll try. But I won’t have you stirring up mud about him; I simply won’t have it. Promise me, now.’
    Nigel promised. After all, the mud was already stirred up so thoroughly that the lady who sits at the bottom of the well was totally invisible.
    While Nigel had been listening to his uncle’s funeral oration, the superintendent had begun another inquiry among the guests. He found Philip Starling and Lucilla Thrale in the lounge. Lucilla had miraculously conjured up from somewhere a dress that conveyed the suggestion of widow’s weeds and at the same time was an invitation to all comers. Starling, sitting on the opposite side of the fireplace, had to admit there was a touch of genius in the way Lucilla had taken every vestige of makeup off her face. She really did look rather impressive and Andromache-like. Not every vestige, though, perhaps; the little don wondered maliciously whether those two dark smudges under her eyes were not the result of artifice rather than of grief. The superintendent said:
    ‘Do either of you happen to know anything about a will made by the deceased? I have been unable to find one in the hut, though I am informed that he kept all his private papers there.’
    Lucilla rose to a statuesque position, one rounded arm flung across her eyes.
    ‘Why do you torment me? What do I care about wills? They cannot give Fergus back to me,’ she said in low, broken, thrilling tones.
    ‘Don’t be an ass, Lucy,’ said Starling acidly; ‘it’s the superintendent who wants to find the will, not you. Anyway, why shouldn’t you want it found? It won’t give Fergus back to you, as you so dramatically put it, but it will quite likely give you a nice handful of