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Ngaio Marsh

Grave Mistake

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Verity Preston of Keys House, Upper Quintern

The Hon. Mrs. Foster (Sybil) of Quintern Place, Upper Quintern

Claude Carter, her stepson

Prunella Foster, her daughter

Bruce Gardener, her gardener

Mrs. Black, his sister

The Reverend Mr. Vicar of St. Crispin’s-in-Quintern

Walter Cloudsley

Nikolas Markos of Mardling Manor, Upper Quintern

Gideon Markos, his son

Jim Jobbin of Upper Quintern Village

Mrs. Jim, his wife; domestic helper

Dr. Field-Innis, M. B. of Great Quintern

Mrs. Field-Innis, his wife

Basil Schramm, Medical incumbent, (né Smythe) Greengages Hotel

Sister Jackson, his assistant

G. M. Johnson, Marleena Briggs Housemaids, Greengages Hotel

The Manager of Greengages Hotel

Daft Artie, Upper Quintern Village

Young Mr. Rattisbon, Solicitor

Chief Superintendent Roderick Alleyn, C. I. D.

Detective-Inspector Fox, C. I. D.

Detective-Sergeant Thompson, C. I. D. ; photographic expert

Detective-Sergeant Bailey, C. I. D. ; fingerprint expert

Sergeant McGuiness, Upper Quintern Police Force

P. C.

A coroner

A waiter

Chapter 1: Upper Quintern

i

“Bring me,” sang the ladies of Upper Quintern, “my Bow of Burning Gold. ”

“Bring me,” itemized The Hon. Mrs. Foster, sailing up into a thready descant, “my Arrows of Desire. ”

“Bring me,” stipulated the Vicar’s wife, adjusting her pince-nez and improvising into seconds, “my Chariot of Fire. ”

Mrs. Jim Jobbin sang with the rest. She had a high soprano and a sense of humour and it crossed her mind to wonder what Mrs. Foster would do with Arrows of Desire or how nice Miss Preston of Keys House would manage a Spear, or how the Vicar’s wife would make out in a Chariot of Fire. Or for a matter of that how she herself, hard-working creature that she was, could ever be said to rest or stay her hand much less build Jerusalem here in Upper Quintern or anywhere else in England’s green and pleasant land.

Still it was a good tune and the words were spirited if a little far-fetched.

Now they were reading the minutes of the last meeting and presently there would be a competition and a short talk from the Vicar, who had visited Rome with an open mind.

Mrs. Jim, as she was always called in the district, looked round the drawing-room with a practised eye. She herself had “turned it out” that morning and Mrs. Foster had done the flowers, picking white prunus-japonica with a more lavish hand than she would have dared to use had she known that McBride, her bad-tempered jobbing gardener, was on the watch.

Mrs. Jim pulled herself together as the chairwoman, using a special voice, said she knew they would all want to express their sympathy with Mrs. Black in her recent sad loss. The ladies murmured and a little uncertain woman in a corner offered soundless acknowledgement.

Then followed the competition. You had to fill in the names of ladies present in answer to what were called cryptic clues. Mrs. Jim was mildly amused but didn’t score very highly. She guessed her own name for which the clue was: “She doesn’t work out. ”