Rodney wished that his sister was less liable to state the obvious. Since there was nothing helpful to be said, he said nothing. He was only grateful that Mildred was apparently too dispirited to assail him for his folly in giving a false name. After a short pause, Mildred spoke again.
“Shall you get in touch with Maitland Lodge or shall I?”
In a well-regulated and moral universe, Mr. Millcroft would no doubt have found Maitland Lodge a sad disappointment—the food indigestible, the wine undrinkable, the staff draconian, his fellow residents uncongenial and the Brigadier a far less agreeable companion under the same roof than he was as an occasional visitor to Meadowsweet Croft. Regrettably for the triumph of virtue over wickedness, Maitland Lodge more than lived up to Mr. Millcroft’s hopes and expectations. He and the Brigadier agreed that they could certainly aim to live there for the next ten years before wondering whether it was time to shuffle off this mortal coil. Mr. Millcroft was a great favourite with the staff, who regarded him as a “real character,” particularly when he was at his most acerbic. He was especially matey with the buxom Nurse Bunting who occasionally ministered to the residents’ aches and pains. When wearing her impeccably starched blue and white uniform and goffered cap Nurse Bunting was a model of professional rectitude. After duty hours, however, she would literally let down her hair and she and Mr. Millcroft enjoyed many cosy sessions in his room over his nightcap of hot whisky.
“You are awful about your family, Gussie,” she occasionally protested. “No visits allowed, no letters, not even a box of chocolates.”
“Particularly not a box of chocolates,” said Mr. Millcroft.
One evening in late August, three months after his admission and at the end of a perfect summer day, he and the Brigadier were sitting in their comfortable cushioned wicker chairs on the terrace looking out over the beautiful gardens of Maitland Lodge to the distant shimmer of the river. Badge the butler had just brought out their pre-dinner drinks and both were at peace with the world. The talk reverted, as it often did, to the circumstances under which this happy resolution had been achieved. The Brigadier said, “I’m still surprised that your children actually swallowed your story.”
“I’m not. People are always ready to believe that others will act as they might have acted themselves. I had no doubt, too, they would call at Pentlands. What was more natural? Your men must have been very convincing, though. Put the fear of God into them. Wish I’d been there to see it.”
“Well,” said the Brigadier easily, “that’s the advantage of being a soldier, you know. You can always find a couple of good chaps when you want a job done.”
“What was it they put in the bottle?”
“You know what it was. Bicarbonate of soda.”
There was a silence while the Brigadier sipped his gin and tonic and Mr. Millcroft savoured his dry sherry. It was served at precisely the temperature he liked. He was pondering whether to try one of the delectable nuts or canapés on the drinks tray or whether that would spoil his appetite for dinner, when the Brigadier said, “Question I’ve always wanted to ask you. Not sure whether I should. Some questions shouldn’t be asked among friends. Still, a natural curiosity, don’t you know. I just wondered—don’t answer if you don’t want to—whether you did help your brother on his way.”
“Whether I murdered him?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, yes. Not with arsenic, of course. Only a cad would use arsenic. That’s the weapon of suburban poisoners and Victorian adulteresses. Still, there are other ways presumably.”
Mr. Millcroft appeared to consider the matter. “Well, if I had done it, I’d have used something quite simple. A plastic bag, for example. You just slip it over the head when the victim is sleeping, press it down firmly over the nose and mouth and he goes out as gently as a sleeping child. I don’t see how anybody could detect that.”
The Brigadier said, “You’d have to dispose of the bag, though. What would you do about it?”
“Oh,” said Mr. Millcroft, taking a further sip of his sherry, “I’d just throw it into the trunk of the blasted oak.” Then, glancing at his friend’s face, he said, “Just a joke, old man. Just a joke. Pass over the paper, will you. What was it you fancied for tomorrow’s two thirty?”
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
P. D. JAMES was the author of twenty-one books, many of which feature her detective hero Adam Dalgliesh and have been televised or filmed. She was the recipient of many honors, including the Mystery Writers of America Grandmaster Award and the National Arts Club Medal of Honor for Literature, and in 1991 was created Baroness James of Holland Park. She died in 2014 at the age of ninety-four.
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P. D. James, Sleep No More: Six Murderous Tales
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