Death Came Softly

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “I didn’t anticipate a party when I made arrangements to meet Mr. Lockersley here this evening. I suggest that you others go back to the house. If you have any evidence to give, Mr. Keston, you will have ample opportunity to give it tomorrow.”

  “Sorry if I butted in at someone else’s party,” said Rhodian, “but it’s only human nature to be inquisitive. That light in the cave looked pretty ghostly.”

  “And where were you when you saw the light?” inquired Macdonald.

  “Just across the lake there, with Carter. He and I went for a stroll. I think he was a bit inquisitive, too, having seen first Lockersley and then Keston wander off into the gloaming. The light in the cave was too much for Carter’s nerves, though. He did a bolt back home, saying his prayers backwards. Come on, Keston. We may as well remove ourselves as requested. It’s only too plain we’re not wanted here.”

  “Very well. I will go, since I am asked to go,” replied Keston. “You have the delinquent there, Inspector. See to it that he does not escape you.”

  He turned away, and Rhodian vanished into the shadows beside him. Rhodian’s voice floated back to them in the darkness, “I say, I should be careful before you go slinging things at other people like that, Keston. Doesn’t seem very wise to me.”

  “Well, I’m damned!” said Lockersley. “Were all these dramatic effects part of your ‘reconstruction of the crime’ performance?”

  “No part of my arrangements,” replied Macdonald, “but things do sometimes happen like that when people’s nerves are on edge. Did you tell anybody else that you were coming out here?”

  “No. I didn’t tell anyone anything about it. I think Keston followed me from the house. I heard his footsteps behind me, but took no notice, not being sure if it was part of your ‘tour de force.’ Are you satisfied with the evening’s performance?”

  Macdonald noted the flippant voice, and guessed that some of the nonchalance, at least, was assumed.

  “I’m satisfied about one point,” he replied. “I had no difficulty in recognizing you before you went into the cave. There must have been plenty of light to identify the professor by the other night. Now I wish you’d tell me exactly what you noticed when you were in the cave.”

  “Nothing much. It was black dark, and not exactly exhilarating. I lay down on the stone slab and listened. In a minute or two I heard footsteps and guessed they were Keston’s—he’s what I call an untidy walker. I could see the entrance of the cave quite easily—it looked quite light in comparison with the dense blackness inside. It was a bit eerie, and I had a horrid sort of feeling that the place was warmer, or stuffier, than it should have been. I suppose that was the contrast with the cool air outside, or it might have been just nerves; the professor always said the place was curiously warm.” Lockersley paused and then went on: “I heard the footsteps drawing nearer—rather a queer feeling, as though I were being hunted by someone—and then at last I saw a black shape blot out the light from the entrance. It was rather curiously dramatic. I knew it was Keston, but supposed he was there by arrangement with you. He came blundering across the cave, and actually touched my face. Then he gave voice—shrilled like a frightened bunny—and your light came on. That’s all.”

  “Thanks very much. A very helpful description. You’ve got steady nerves, Mr. Lockersley. It can’t have been a pleasant experience.”

  “It certainly was not.” Lockersley’s voice sounded almost cordial. “In fact, it was damned nasty. Keston’s as near off his rocker as makes no difference, but I’m pretty certain of one thing. He wouldn’t have the nerve to murder anybody. He was panting—I could hear it as he came near me—and his beastly cold hands were clammy with sweat when he touched me.”

  * * *

  Lockersley and Macdonald were standing outside the cave, and Lockersley had lighted a cigarette. It was almost dark now, and Macdonald could only see the other’s face when his cigarette glowed brightly. Lockersley went on:

  “By the way, I’ve done the other thing you asked me to—written down the conversation before and during the time Rhodian came with me to the cave that Tuesday evening. Incidentally, I find the record rather illuminating. I don’t know if it will appeal to you that way. I’ve also written down a number of odd facts which seem unrelated, but which may be useful to you when you come to assess the whole. Of course—” He broke off abruptly, and Macdonald asked:

  “Of course—what?”

  “Of course you are bound to suspect every fact I’ve put down, which is a pity, because a number of facts aren’t verifiable unless some other person gives an equally accurate account of what occurred. Without indulging in solemn oaths, I can tell you that I believe there is not a single statement in this which isn’t rigidly accurate.”

  He held out a sheaf of papers to Macdonald, who could see their whiteness in the gloom, and the latter took them, saying:

  “Thanks very much. If you have achieved the standard of accuracy you claim, you are an unusual person.”

  “Actually, I have an accurate mind,” said Lockersley. “You know, the further I seem to be involved in this tangle, the more it appeals to me that there might be a deadly fascination, not in murder itself, but in its method and the avoidance of subsequent detection. Say if I, as murderer, had given you those papers, and that everything in them was in accordance with facts, and yet I could defy you to see the implication of those facts.”

  “I can only reply that excess of assurance on the part of the murderer is as dangerous to him as lack of forethought,” replied Macdonald, and something in his tone made Lockersley chuckle.

  “It seems to me that the trouble is that other people behave so oddly,” he went on. “Take Keston—he’s just following a hunch, like Hitler’s intuition. In Keston’s case it’s wishful thinking, of course. He believes I did it because he dislikes me. Incidentally, what did he mean when he kept on telling you to search me? What did he imagine I’d got on me?”

  “I’ve been wondering that ever since he said it,” replied Macdonald, and Lockersley laughed.

  “Well, take him at his word and search me, then. Come up to the house and search me in his presence, if you like.”

  “No. I don’t think so. In the darkness you might have too many opportunities of throwing something away into the lake or the undergrowth. I think it would be a sound idea to search you, here and now, in the cave.”

  “Righto. I’ve no objection, but how do you know that I haven’t thrown away—whatever it was—as I stood here?”

  “Because I can see well enough to watch you, being reasonably cat-eyed, and hear well enough to know that you have neither dropped nor thrown away anything whatever.”

  Again Lockersley laughed. “Is excess of assurance on the part of a detective dangerous?” he asked. “Let’s go back into the cave, and you can turn your torchlight on me.”

  With Macdonald close beside him, they reentered the cave, and Macdonald switched on his torch and laid it on the hermit’s bed. Lockersley was dressed in a black dinner suit, the jacket buttoned over a soft shirt, with no waistcoat. He raised his hands and stood still while. Macdonald ran his hands over him and then investigated the contents of his trousers pockets. These yielded a handkerchief, a packet of Players’ cigarettes and a gasoline lighter. The outer jacket pockets contained a letter, its envelope still stuck up.

  “It came by the second post, and I haven’t had time to read it yet, but you can read it if you like. It’s only from my agent,” said Lockersley.

  The small inner pocket of the dinner jacket contained something, however. Macdonald had felt the hard shape of some small object when he first ran his hands over Lockersley. He put his hand in the pocket and drew out something which appeared to be a small stone. He picked up his flashlight and directed it onto the object in his hand.

  “What’s that?” inquired Lockersley.

  “I’m not certain. It may be an uncut diamond, or it may not.”

  “A diamond! Merry hell! The dirty do
g . . . so that’s what he meant. What you call a plant in the best circles,” said Lockersley indignantly. “Really, Mr. Keston, I wouldn’t have believed it of you.”

  “Neither would I,” said Macdonald reflectively. “I take it you have no knowledge of how this thing arrived in your pocket?”

  “I’ve no idea at all, because I didn’t know it was there,” replied Lockersley. “Believe me or not, it’s true.”

  * * *

  After dinner on that same evening Eve again tried to persuade her sister to go to bed early. Emmeline was in a nervous, exasperating frame of mind, and she seemed incapable of forgetting—or letting others forget—the one grim topic which was inevitably in all their minds. At dinner Bruce Rhodian tried gallantly to keep the conversation from the tragedy whose gloom hung over Valehead. He talked about his travels in various parts of the world, and he talked well. Eve had the relief of laughter, for Rhodian was amusing in his narratives. Lockersley had joined in, also making an effort toward light-hearted spontaneity, and talking much more vigorously than he usually did, supplementing Rhodian’s absurd stories of camping in various primitive parts of the world with reminiscences of his, Lockersley’s, wanderings in Europe, in what he chose to call his “optimistic and impecunious youth.”

  Eve was grateful to both men, and she could have shaken Emma, who sat in silence, irritable and unamused.

  After dinner, when coffee had been drunk, Rhodian had said he was going upstairs to pack the remainder of the things he had left in his room, and Lockersley, with a brief apology to Eve, said he had some writing to do.

  When she was left alone with her sister Eve turned to her, saying, “Emma dear, I’m afraid you found them awfully wearing, but they meant well. Why not go to bed and try to have a good long night’s sleep? You look worn out.”

  “I can’t sleep, and I can’t bear the thought of going to bed,” responded Emma. “I can’t imagine how you manage to be so light-hearted, Eve, laughing away so happily, as though you hadn’t a care in the world. This thing is simply haunting me. I can’t get away from it. Heaven alone knows what is going to happen next. One of us may be arrested, and how can we prove we didn’t do it?”

  “Oh, Emma, don’t be so morbid! Why on earth should it be supposed that you or I killed our own father? It’s horrible—and stupid—to even say such things. You can’t do any good by brooding over a thing. Try to forget it.”

  “I can’t forget it. I’m not like you. I keep on thinking about those diamonds. I’m sure they’re the crux of the whole thing, and I’m equally sure that Keston took them. But the point is, I knew about them. Father told me. The police can prove I was awfully pressed for money—”

  “Emma, I simply refuse to let you go on talking like this. It’s not fair to me, and I won’t have it. If you were in need of money, you could have had it, either from Father or from me, with all the good will in the world. You’d only got to say so.”

  It was in vain that Eve tried to “talk sense” to her sister. Emma was obstinately morbid, her nerves on edge to a degree which horrified Eve.

  The time dragged on, and grayness stole over the world, while Emmeline sat obstinately knitting, either recapitulating her theories about the professor’s death, or else recalling old histories of crime and criminals. Eve got up at last and switched the lights on.

  “Don’t do that. Anyone can see in through the windows,” said Mrs. Stamford.

  “There’s nobody to see, Emma, but it’s getting on for blackout time. I’ll pull the curtains. Then I’m going to have a drink. I think this is one of the rare occasions when a good strong whiskey and soda appeals to me. Won’t you have a drink too? You like a gin and lime, don’t you?”

  “Not now. It’d make me sick. I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”

  “Good. I’ll go and get you one. I expect the Carters have gone to bed. It’s nearly eleven. I lose count of time these long light evenings.”

  “Where are the others—Mr. Rhodian and Mr. Lockersley? They haven’t been in to say good night?”

  “I don’t know. They may have gone for a walk. I’m afraid I’m a very unpunctilious hostess; I never bother about the good nights and good mornings. I’d better look round and see if Carter’s blacked out everywhere. We generally get to bed before it’s dark these days. I won’t be long.”

  * * *

  Eve Merrion found it a relief to be by herself in the cheerful kitchen, with its well scrubbed surfaces and shining pots and pans. It all looked so sane and healthy and normal. The morning tea trays were there, daintily laid, and two large cups and saucers and a big brown teapot for Mr. and Mrs. Carter. Eve filled the electric kettle, switched it on and then went to the dining room and did a thing she very seldom did—poured herself out a good stiff drink and swallowed it. “A nice way to behave, my dear,” she apostrophized herself. “If Emma insists on sitting up much longer I shall get drunk. Otherwise I shall go raving mad. Dear, dear. That’s better. . . .”

  She returned to the kitchen, made the tea, found some biscuits and returned to Mrs. Stamford.

  “A nice cup-er-tea, love. Always recommended in air raids and other emergencies. Goodness, how I’d welcome an air raid now. Just a private one, for us alone, no one else included.”

  “Eve! I believe you’ve been drinking. . . .”

  Eve Merrion laughed aloud. “I have, my dear. As long a one as I could lower. It did me a power of good, too. Why not follow suit?”

  “I just can’t understand you,” said Emma, and Eve retorted:

  “Then why try? Shall we have the wireless on and see if we can find something to suit our case? Sorry if I sound flippant, Emma, but neither weeping, wailing nor gnashing of teeth is going to help us, and to worry oneself into a nervous breakdown won’t help any, as Bruce Rhodian would say. How do you like him, Emma? I think he makes rather a good foil to Lockersley, who’s generally so deceptively stolid. Do you remember that man Staines, who tried to make love to us alternately in the long ago?”

  Eve kept up her rather futile chatter as she poured out tea for her sister and moved about the room tidying things up—anything was better than letting Emma indulge in her melancholy reflections. Suddenly Emma said: “Eve, what’s that? What’s that? Somebody is moving about in the hall. Is it that detective again?”

  Eve went to the door and opened it to find Bruce Rhodian standing outside.

  “Sorry if I rattled you, Mrs. Merrion. I thought you would all have gone to bed.”

  “My sister doesn’t feel like ‘early to bed,’ ” responded Eve. “We’ve been making tea. Would you like some, or there’s a drink in the dining room, if you’d prefer that. I’m afraid the tea’s rather cold now.”

  “I like cold tea,” he replied cheerfully, and as he came into the room Emmeline demanded abruptly:

  “Where have you been, and what have you been doing, and where is Mr. Lockersley?”

  “I went for a walk in the gloaming and met Carter,” responded Rhodian. “He and I yarned a bit; he’s a real old sailor.”

  “Did you see Mr. Lockersley?”

  “I did, as a matter of fact, and Keston, too. They were both down at the cave, with the chief inspector.”

  “What for?”

  Mrs. Stamford’s voice was breathless, and Rhodian shot a glance at her before he replied:

  “I’ve no notion, Mrs. Stamford. I reckon the inspector was getting on with his job, though what his procedure was I’ve no idea. Perhaps Lockersley will tell you. As for Keston, I reckon he butted in when he wasn’t wanted, just as I did. Anyway, Keston and I were asked to remove ourselves. Carter had done that already. He didn’t wait to be asked.”

  Emmeline turned to her sister, her voice low and tense:

  “Keston was there, Eve. I know he’s mixed up in all this. I’ve felt it all along.”

  “I reckon it’s better not to have feelings of that kind just now, Mrs. Stamford,” put in Rhodian crisply. “When it comes to ‘feelings’—well, they’re just a bit
too subjective. Keston has got ‘feelings’ about Lockersley, and gave voice to them. I’ve been telling him all the way up the drive he’s just a darned fool. He’s let his nerves get the better of him, and now he just doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  “Poor dear!” It was Eve’s voice which sounded so sympathetic. “He’s just frantic with worry and unhappiness, but I do wish he wouldn’t go about saying such silly things. Mr. Rhodian, that tea is perfectly revolting! Come along to the kitchen and make some more, if you really want tea. I should have thought a proper drink would have suited you better.”

  “I like tea,” Rhodian replied. “I’ll go and brew another pot. Don’t you bother.”

  He picked up the pot and made for the door, Eve following him. As they crossed the hall she said to him:

  “My sister’s nearly driving me mad! Sorry to complain. I don’t often, but I’ve got to the state when it’s a comfort to have someone to grumble to. I had such a crazy idea this evening: I suddenly thought, if only Father were here, he’d be so helpful.”

  “I guess I know just what you mean,” said Rhodian quietly. “It’s too bad. You’re getting the brunt of it all. There’s Mrs. Stamford and Keston both heading for a nervous breakdown, Lockersley going round playing detective and looking ominous, Carter all of a dither, and the Bradys praying to all the saints in turn, and muttering in the corridors. As I say, it’s rough luck on you.”

  “Oh, I shall survive, but it’s all too utterly grim just at present,” said Eve forlornly. “It’s the sort of thing which happens to other people, not to oneself.”

  They made a fresh pot of tea and returned to the drawing room. Lockersley had come in, and Keston was standing in the doorway glaring at him. Eve spoke with sharp decision in her voice.

  “Emma, come up to bed. It’s late, and I’m not going to sit up any longer. Mr. Keston, you look tired out, too. Pour out a cup of tea it you want one, and then go to bed, too. We shall all get on each other’s nerves if we stay up any longer. Come on, Emma. Mr. Lockersley, please bolt the front door and put out the light when you and Mr. Rhodian go up, and don’t stop up all night, please.”