by A. A. Milne
Archibald’s immediate explanation was an amazed ‘Good lord!’
So that was what it was all about! He had seen the papers on the Wednesday before he came away, and knew that the Latour had been found dead. He remembered now that there had been some talk of a Jenny who was missing. And it was his secretary, Nancy Fairbrother, now sunning herself in his rose-garden, who had given him the missing Jenny’s watch, with an entirely made-up tale of a little sister Joyce! Good lord!
‘Well,’ said Mr. Fenton . . .
‘It was really like this,’ said Mr. Fenton . . .
‘What actually happened——’
‘Don’t be in a hurry, sir,’ said Marigold. ‘And’, he added kindly, ‘if you like to explain at the same time how you hurt your head, then we shall know all about it.’
Mr. Fenton was not an Old Felsbridgian; and though, as a boy, he had passed through Eton on a bicycle, he was not, strictly speaking, an Old Etonian. But he had been at Harrow for a few terms, and even if the school motto, Stet fortuna domus, had never been a real inspiration in his life, he did realize that there were some things which no decent man could do. He could not give away a charming little thing who was just going to have tea with him.
‘Are you seriously suspecting me of murdering Jane Latour?’ he asked, with as careless a laugh as he could manage.
‘That I shall know, sir, when I have heard your explanation.’
‘Well, I’m not sure that you’re going to get one.’
‘It’s only fair to warn you, Mr. Fenton, that there is a great deal of evidence pointing in your direction already, and that your refusal to give a reasonable explanation——’
‘You mean you’re going to arrest me?’
‘Well, sir, as things are, you’re practically asking for it?’
‘Got the handcuffs?’ sneered Archibald.
An accidental clink came from the direction of Sergeant Bagshaw, as he put his notebook back in his pocket. The Sergeant gazed stolidly out of the window at the pigeons. Still at it.
Archibald thought quickly. He did not tell himself that an innocent man could not be hanged in England, because he had every reason to believe that he could; but he did tell himself that an innocent Archibald Fenton, who knew the Editor of the Sunday Sentinel, the Home Secretary, the Public Prosecutor, three Judges, five Police Court magistrates and practically the whole of the Bar could not possibly be hanged. He also told himself that his new novel was coming out next Tuesday . . .
After all, one must do something for one’s new novel. In the old days he had given it a cocktail party, to which had been invited such literary friends of his as might conceivably review it, together with such fashionable acquaintance of his as might conceivably make the invitation attractive. Himself and the latest Lovely had held the book rigidly between them, in the manner of two members of a jury taking the oath, and the press photographer, who had accidentally found himself there, nobody quite knew how, had said: ‘Now keep it cheerful, Mr. Fender, we don’t write a new book every day,’ and, Mr. Fender keeping it cheerful, the maître d’hôtel of the moment had christened it (to use again that strangely inappropriate word) with a gin and vermouth, most of which was trickling up Mr. Fenton’s (or Fender’s) sleeve as the camera clicked. Archibald had liked these parties, for he felt that some such spontaneous expression of gaiety was natural on these occasions. But now the thing was becoming ridiculous. The dignity of letters was in danger when authors of whom one had never heard gave christening parties for books of which one never wanted to hear, and got more publicity in the illustrated papers than one did oneself, simply because they had scraped acquaintance with still more members of the peerage.
So there was to be no party for the new book; no fuss; simply the bare announcement in the papers: ‘Mr. Fenton was much the least concerned man in London yesterday when his long anticipated new novel was at last published. I found him sitting quietly in his library, reading the Odes of Horace . . .’ and so on, with, of course, a photograph of Mr. Fenton doing this. Perhaps now it would be ‘walking in his garden at Ferries, his country seat in the heart of the Hop district, and apparently much more concerned over the shaping of a new rose-bed than over the sensational success of his new book’. That was all. Unless . . .
Arrested for murder!
What an advertisement!
‘Well,’ said Inspector Marigold, ‘are we going to have that explanation, or aren’t we?’
‘No,’ said Archibald firmly. ‘I shall say nothing until I have seen my solicitors.’
With an air of great dignity he put his wrists together, and held them out to Sergeant Bagshaw. The clinking noise this time was louder.
Chapter Nineteen
Six meet at Ferries
I
As they drove back to Ferries in Archibald’s car Jenny was singing. From time to time Derek’s hand left the wheel and found hers, and said to hers ‘I love you, I love you, I love you’, and went back to the wheel again; because this was a strange car, and the one terrifying thought in the world now was that there might be an accident in which Jenny, just found, was lost to him. But Jenny thought of nothing. She was enfolded in a dream of happiness, and hardly knew that she was singing.
‘There’s Nancy,’ said Derek. ‘May I have my hand, darling? I want to stop.’
Nancy was waiting for them outside the gates. She came up to the car eagerly.
‘I say! The police are here!’
‘Good lord! Have you seen them?’
‘Saw them come. I talked to your brother. He didn’t know anything about anything. All quite innocent. Then we went round the garden and did the Ruth Draper business, and somebody telephoned to say they would be there at four, so he went in so as to be ready for them, and I spied round the bushes and it was the police.’
‘D’you hear that, Jenny?’
‘Did I?’ said Jenny vaguely.
‘How long ago was this?’
‘About ten minutes ago. He’s probably just being arrested, and clapping a white tablet to his mouth, and the Inspector is leaping forward and saying “Not that way, sir,” and Mr. Fenton is saying “You fool, it’s a soda-mint,” because he always carries them about with him, and——’
‘Quite so. Hadn’t you better get in?’
‘I’m all right here,’ said Nancy, standing on the running-board. ‘Hallo, darling.’
Jenny smiled vaguely and went on singing.
‘I don’t mind telling you,’ said Derek, ‘that just at the moment I’m not afraid of twenty policemen.’
‘Actually there are two.’
‘Good, then I’m eighteen in hand. Now we’ll just go in as if we were paying an ordinary call, and see what the position is. We shall have to do a whole lot of explaining some time or other, but don’t let’s be in a hurry. The great thing is to see how the conversation goes, and come in at the right moment.’
They came in at the right moment. The arrest had just been effected. This was how the conversation went.
‘Hallo!’
‘My God, you again!’
‘Excuse me, sir; excuse me, ladies. Now then, sir, if you’re ready.’ Inspector Marigold’s party, Archibald in the middle, began to move towards the door.
‘Are you being arrested, Hippo?’
‘I’m afraid, sir, I cannot allow any conversation with the prisoner——’
‘Oh come, if an intelligent man sees his only brother knocked on the head and hauled off in chains by two obvious policemen, the least he can do is to say “Are you being arrested?” Anything less would be——’
‘I cannot allow that statement to pass, sir.’
‘Which one?’
‘That the prisoner has been knocked on the head by the police. The prisoner himself will tell you——’
Sergeant Bagshaw hurriedly got his notebook ou
t again, in case the prisoner made a statement.
‘What the devil are you doing here anyhow?’ said the prisoner.
‘Brought your car back. And now that we’re all together——’
‘Now then, sir, if you please.’
‘Look here, you can’t seriously mean to arrest Archibald Fenton? Not old Hippo?’
‘Alias Hippo,’ wrote Sergeant Bagshaw in his notebook.
‘I should advise you, sir, not to interfere with the police in the execution of their duty.’
‘But he’s absolutely innocent. As innocent as a——’
‘New-born babe,’ prompted Nancy.
‘As innocent as a—well, as a matter of fact I was going to say a “babe unborn”. I don’t know that there’s much in it.’
‘Babe unborn,’ said Nancy. ‘Much better. Sorry.’
‘Thank you. As innocent, Inspector, as a babe unborn. And you know how innocent they are. I tell you, the whole thing’s ridiculous.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ commanded Archibald, seeing his advertisement slipping away from him.
‘Indeed, sir? And may I ask of what he is so innocent?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Derek thoughtfully, ‘that’s a nasty one.’
‘And how you know what he’s being charged with?’
‘Don’t rub it in. I see your point.’
‘The fact is,’ said Nancy, ‘I happen to—— Ow!’
‘Look at it this way, Inspector,’ said Derek, removing a warning heel from Nancy’s instep. ‘I don’t know if you have any brothers—or you, sir,’ he added courteously to Bagshaw—‘but if you have, you will realize the impossibility to a brother of——’
‘Yes,’ said Inspector Marigold, curling his moustache at the three of them, ‘I think perhaps I should like to know a little more about you all. Sit down, please, ladies.’ He turned to Archibald. ‘If you would like to sit down, sir——’
‘Mayn’t he take his cuffs off?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Archibald with dignity. ‘It would be most irregular.’
‘Now, sir.’
‘May I sit down too?’ asked Derek, and, taking the Inspector’s permission for granted, sat down on the sofa between Jenny and Nancy.
‘Name, please?’
‘Derek Peabody Fenton.’
‘Peabody?’ said Nancy, surprised.
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Profession?’
‘What’s the matter with Peabody?’
‘Oh, nothing. It just seemed rather funny.’
‘Profession?’
‘Well, it’s really more of a business. I’m in the wine-trade.’
Nancy’s quick look behind his back at Jenny said ‘Oh, is that what he is?’ and Jenny’s answering look made it clear that he had nothing to do with the bottles but only with the grapes. More a gentleman-fruit-farmer, sort of, said Jenny proudly, and Nancy allowed that that made all the difference and that, when you were as nice as Derek, it really wouldn’t have mattered if you were the man who licked the labels.
‘And you, madam?’
‘Nancy Slade Fairbrother.’
‘Slade?’ said Derek, surprised.
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Married or single?’
‘What’s the matter with Slade?’
‘Oh, nothing. It just seemed rather funny.’
‘Married or single?’
‘Single.’
‘Any occupation?’
‘Secretary to Mr. Archibald Fenton, the author.’
‘Ah!’ said the Inspector meaningly. Now the whole case was getting linked up.
‘Mr. Fenton and I’, explained Nancy, unlinking it, ‘were together in his house at Bloomsbury throughout the whole of Tuesday morning. He was dictating to me Chapter Four of his new novel Parallel.’
‘One “r”, two “l’s”,’ said Derek behind his hand to Sergeant Bagshaw.
‘Three,’ said Nancy.
‘Three,’ corrected Derek. ‘A little one at the end.’
‘You can make a statement later if you wish, Miss Fairbrother,’ said the Inspector coldly. ‘Now, madam. You?’
‘Jane Windell.’
‘Married or single?’
‘Single.’
‘But about to be married,’ explained Derek.
‘Jenny!’ cried Nancy. ‘Darling! Really, darling?’
Jenny nodded happily.
‘Oh, Derek!’ cried Nancy.
‘I know, isn’t it marvellous?’
‘Oh, I am glad. When did you——’
‘Please, please!’ said Inspector Marigold.
‘Really,’ said Archibald, disgusted to find himself no longer in the foreground, ‘this is almost too crude.’
‘Sir!’ implored the Sergeant in a loud aside.
‘Occupation, if any?’
‘Inspector, how can you ask,’ said Derek reproachfully, ‘when I’ve just told you we’re engaged?’
‘Sir!’
‘Well, well, what is it?’
‘Windell! Jane Windell! Jenny Windell!’
‘What?’
‘I say, look here,’ said Archibald, ‘we can’t have this sort of thing.’
‘Are you Jenny Windell?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah!’ The Inspector drew a deep breath. Unaided he had tracked her down.
‘Really,’ said Archibald, ‘these hysterical females will call themselves anything. Psychoanalysts——’
‘Just a moment, sir. Now then, Miss Windell. Carry your mind back to the morning of the 29th ult.’
‘He means where were you on Tuesday, darling.’
‘Were you in the company of the prisoner——’
‘No,’ said Archibald.
‘I have already told you that Mr. Archibald Fenton was with me,’ said Nancy. ‘Dictating the fourth chapter of his new novel Parallel.’
‘One “r” and three “l’s”,’ whispered Derek to Sergeant Bagshaw. ‘We got that wrong last time.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Archibald, feeling that it was time he asserted himself. ‘Never mind where I was; the point is, where am I now? I have been arrested at a very inconvenient moment when my new book Waterfall is just coming out. I have——’
‘Waterfall?’ said Sergeant Bagshaw, scratching his head. ‘I’ve got it down Parallel.’
‘Oh, my dear Sergeant,’ said Archibald, clinking his handcuffs irritably, ‘do use your intelligence. My new novel which is being published on Tuesday at eight-and-sixpence is called Waterfall. The one which I am now writing, and shall not finish until next year——’
‘Now please, please, please!’ implored the Inspector. ‘Let us get things in order. Miss Windell, I am asking you——’
‘All I am saying is that, having been arrested in this summary manner, I naturally wish to get in touch with my solicitors. Sitting here and listening to the life-story of a young woman who may or may not be Jenny Windell, who I have very grave—whom I have very grave reasons to suspect of not being Jenny Windell, of, in fact, going about the country——’
‘Come to think of it,’ said Marigold thoughtfully, ‘you aren’t much like the photographs in the papers, miss.’
‘How right you are, Inspector,’ said Derek. ‘But then, how rarely photographs in the papers do one complete justice. Now take your own case. I pictured you—it is the famous Inspector Marigold, isn’t it?’
The Inspector curled his moustache, and inclined his head.
‘Exactly. But who would have known from those photographs of you that the handsomest man in the police-force——’
‘Have I been arrested, or have I not?’ shouted Archibald. ‘That
’s all I want to know. If I have, then my natural desire to get in touch with my solicitors——’
‘Shall I ring them up, Mr. Fenton?’ said Nancy.
‘No. Ring up the Home Secretary. He’ll be at the Club. He always goes there for tea. Tell him that Mr. Archibald Fenton——’
‘Well, Mr. Fenton,’ said Marigold hastily, ‘I did ask you to explain about the watch. Even now, if you care to give me an explanation, I shall be only too glad——’
‘Jenny’s watch? Why, of course, I gave him that.’
‘You, miss? What did you say your name was?’
‘Nancy Fairbrother. I——’
‘Nancy Slade Fairbrother,’ corrected Derek. ‘Do let us stick to the facts.’
‘I gave it to her,’ said Jenny, ‘so as she could sell it.’
‘And Mr. Fenton very kindly offered to sell it for me. And——’
‘Is that right, sir?’
‘I have already told you’, said Archibald with dignity, ‘that I have nothing to say until I have seen my solicitors. Hardcastle and Hardcastle. In any case I have no intention of sheltering myself behind these two ladies. As it is, I ask myself what the police-force of this country is coming to. In America an arrest like this would have been conducted with a simple formal dignity. Having been photographed in his handcuffs for the principal daily papers, the accused would have made a short statement for publication——’
‘Haven’t you got a camera here, Hippo? We’ll take one now.’
‘No, no, sir, I can’t allow that.’
‘Indeed?’ said Archibald coldly. ‘Are you presuming to tell my brother which of the family he may photograph? There’s a camera on the shelf over there, Miss Fairbrother. If you wouldn’t mind getting it——’
‘Here, give me that key,’ demanded Inspector Marigold of the Sergeant. The Sergeant gave it to him.