“Probably accounts for it,” said Charles. “Run to seed.”
“Tragic affair, Walter Plenmeller's death,” remarked the Major. “Never more shocked in my life! I must say, though I don't like Gavin, I was damned sorry for him. Of course, the poor chap wasn't in his right mind, but it can't have been pleasant for Gavin.”
“He committed suicide, didn't he?” said Abby. “Aunt Miriam's always a bit cagey about it. What happened?”
“Gassed himself, and left a letter to Gavin, practically accusing him of having driven him to it,” said Charles briefly, swinging the car round the corner into the High Street. “It was all rot, of course: he used to have the most ghastly migraines, and I suppose they got to be a bit too much for him.”
“Set me down at the cross-roads, Charles,” said the Major, leaning forward to tap him on the shoulder. “No need to come any farther.”
“Sure, sir?” said Charles, beginning to slow down.
“Quite sure—and many thanks for the lift!” said the Major, as the car stopped. “Goodbye, Miss Dearham: I hope we shall have the opportunity of playing again before you go back to town. Goodbye, Drybeck. Right away, Charles!”
They left the Major striding off in the direction of Ultima Thule, and turned the corner into the Trindale road. A few hundred yards along it, Charles stopped again to set down Mr. Drybeck, and then drove forward, and into Fox Lane.
“Come in and have a drink!” invited Abby. “Aunt Miriam would adore you to. She never drinks anything herself, but she's firmly convinced I can't exist without having gin laid on, practically like running hot and cold water, so she lays in quantities whenever I come to stay. She's an absolute toot, you know. Most people's aunts disapprove madly of cocktails, and say "Surely you don't need another, dear?" but she never does. In fact, you'd think she was a confirmed soak, the way she fills up the glasses.”
“Of course I'm coming in,” said Charles, swinging his long legs out of the car, and slamming the door. “That's why I brought you home.”