by Roy Vickers
Roach was picked up on leaving the building by the man from the detective agency, who elicited only that Roach was a driver employed by The Hollow Tree Garage, Renchester. This fact was promptly relayed to Sir Edward Maenton, who rang Veronica on the following morning.
It was quite a long conversation for a busy solicitor. It gave plenty of openings for Veronica to tell him of Roach’s visit—none of which were taken by Veronica.
Chapter Nine
William Brengast was buried in the family vault in North London, which had been built by his grandfather—a local plumber with ideals, who had died bankrupt.
The secret had been kept by Sir Edward Maenton to the last effective moment—which meant until after the early evening papers had been printed. The Press was present, but not the public, and the photographers created the usual mild disturbance.
Jill Aspland had wavered about attending. WillyBee had disapproved of funerals. “If I mean anything to you, m’dear, there’s nothing in that box for you to cry about.” Yes, but he never expected her to act on that sort of thing. His hypocrisy had been a joke which they had shared.
Jill mingled with the party of some fifty directors and departmental chiefs from the WillyBee enterprises. The church still looked like a village church which indeed it had been although it was barely a dozen miles from Westminster. The last to enter was Veronica, escorted by a man whose appearance was vaguely familiar to Jill though she could not remember who he was.
When the ceremony was over Jill observed that this man saw Veronica into a car and then turned back and waited by the lych gate. He waited, in fact, until Jill came out.
“Miss Aspland! My name is Maenton. You spoke to me the other day on the telephone on behalf of Mrs. Brengast. I wonder if you would be good enough to come back with me to my office?”
“Certainly, Sir Edward. I thought I recognised you but was not sure.”
In the car he told her:
“When we last met you were thirteen. You had just done your first term at Cheltenham.”
By the time she was sitting in his office he had established a family atmosphere. She was aware of the smooth skill with which he was combining pleasantries with a proper sense of the occasion and wondered what it was all about.
He spoke of her inheritance of £10,000 and produced a formal document for her to sign, but she guessed that this was window dressing.
“Mrs. Brengast has told me what a tower of strength you have been to her in the nasty little complication of those three men.”
Veronica, of course! Anyhow, there could be no means of dodging WillyBee’s solicitor.
“Did she say ‘tower of strength’, Sir Edward?”
“No!” He smiled with self-forgiveness. “That was a little flourish of mine. She was in fact very cagey about you, but she made no objection when I said it was urgently necessary for me to get in touch with you.”
“But I’m afraid I can’t help. I don’t know anything she doesn’t know.”
“Quite so! You witnessed nothing but the backwash. It is a little difficult to explain why I am intruding on your time.”
He got up and began to pace the room.
“You are her friend—probably the only one she has, barring professional friends like myself. You know her better than I do. I’ve met her often at your poor uncle’s house, but only in company. To me she is a charming woman—but a sheltered woman, with very little grasp of practical affairs. She can’t help painting everything in pleasing colours—she treats her legal adviser as someone who has to be entertained with light conversation.”
He stopped close to Jill’s chair, looked at her with expert approval and added: “I want you to tell me everything she was afraid to tell me.”
“That would mean giving her away—perhaps betraying her confidence.”
“Of course it would!” It was not the admission of a conspirator—it was the bold statement of an able man who refuses to shirk realities. “It’s the only way you can help her. I sent a man down to Renchester yesterday. He found out one or two things she ought to have told me—for instance about that man who gave her a lift from Diddington. How the devil, my dear Miss Aspland, can I keep her out of court—in the last state, keep her out of prison—if the other side can spring surprises on me, making hay of my plans to protect her!”
That was unanswerable. Helped by his questions she told him all she could—beginning at the flat in Bayswater and ending with Veronica refusing her company for the inquest.
“That wedding ring story!” exclaimed Maenton. “That’s very useful. Indeed, in my opinion, it clears Veronica.”
Perceiving Jill’s surprise, he added:
“I see you don’t agree with me? Then let me ask you a question. What time did Veronica arrive at that flat to meet you?”
“Within, say, a couple of minutes of half past nine.”
“You strengthen my case,” beamed Maenton. “Nobody can prove what time she left Renchester that night. But at least two can prove what time she left Salisbury the following morning. The taxi man who took her from her sister’s to the station and the booking clerk who changed a five pound note and, of course, asked her to put her name on the back. That ties her down to the train due in London at nine-eight. Allowing a few minutes from train to taxi and fifteen minutes to drive from Waterloo Station to the flat—and you get nine-thirty. Could she have bought a wedding ring and had it engraved after she joined you at the flat?”
“No. But I didn’t imagine she had substituted another ring. I was puzzled about it myself. I thought at first that the tale was an invention—then that it could not be—and then that there was some trick in it. But I couldn’t see what kind of trick would be any use.”
“No kind of trick could be of any use. Of those two men—Stranack and Canvey—one may have been the innocent man. Or both may have been guilty. In either case, the guilty—it doesn’t matter how—got to know that the innocent man had thrown the ring into the river. The guilty man or men stole the story, which was true. It must have been true. The guilty would never have dared to invent a circumstantial tale like that. If you follow me so far, what is your inference, Miss Aspland?”
“I can’t draw any. My mind stands still.”
“Why shirk the inference that the innocent man took the ring from the finger of another woman?”
“I don’t shirk it. I tried to draw that inference myself—hoping the police and everybody else would do the same.”
“How can anyone escape that inference? Only by assuming that one of the men—innocent or guilty—returned it to Veronica furtively. That would be the greatest absurdity of all, because the man in possession of that ring—innocent or guilty—would have the strongest possible support for his assertion that he was the innocent man.”
Jill felt her thoughts spinning.
“Then the ‘Mystery Girl’ really exists!” she exclaimed. “But why should she tear up Veronica’s photo and hide the pieces?”
Maenton contrived to look as if he had hoped she would ask that question.
“We don’t have to find an answer,” he pronounced. “Nevertheless, that torn photograph, I admit, is just the sort of thing a jury enjoys. We must not run away from it. Have you any theory as to who did tear it up—and hide the pieces in the sofa?”
“None whatever!”
“Not even the theory that it was—Veronica Brengast?”
Jill stiffened with resentment.
“I have no evidence that Veronica was at that lockhouse, Sir Edward.”
“But you tried to obtain evidence that she was at that lockhouse, Miss Aspland? After she had left Renchester?”
He had spoken as if he were counsel scoring a point in cross-examination. Jill bristled.
“Yes. After Veronica had left the hotel, I went to the lockhouse myself,” she said as evenly as if it had been a shopping expedition. “I had a talk with Eddis—negative result. He might have been the one who stayed at the lockhouse—Veronica might have
been the girl who was with him. And might not!”
It seemed to her that Maenton was now the one to be surprised. She went on:
“I’m going back to Renchester tonight. Canvey is relieving Eddis at the lockhouse. Tomorrow I shall run over and see if I can get anything out of him.”
“Well—I’m—jiggered!” exclaimed Maenton. “Aren’t you rather turning yourself into a one-woman police force?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t think it matters what you call it. I have—a personal reason—for wishing to know whether Veronica was—”
“I quite understand that!” he interrupted. “I make no objection whatever. But—in the event of your obtaining evidence—”
“I’m not running a spite against Veronica. If I do obtain definite evidence—one way or the other—I promise to let you know at once.”
“I vastly appreciate that, Miss Aspland … Thank you for facing the issues so squarely … I think we understand each other … You have helped me more than I can say.” Under cover of the bombardment he was hustling her out of the room, as if he dared not let her say another word.
In the train on the way back to Renchester, thinking over her interview with Maenton, she was inclined to believe that it had been worthwhile. Poor, silly Veronica, treating her own lawyer as if he were a policeman on her trail! A good lawyer, too, by the shape of him, in spite of a touch of the smart alec. All the better—he would frighten Veronica a little and make her obey orders.
Suddenly her contentment was shattered. Her thought scampered over their conversation as if she had forgotten something—as if she had made some ghastly mistake without noticing it at the time. “I quite understand that.” Understand what? That she had a personal reason for wanting to know whether Veronica had been at that lockhouse. “I make no objection whatever.” To what?
To her trying to collect £100,000 as residuary legatee on the cancellation of Veronica’s marriage settlement. What else could he mean by saying he had no objection? Besides, there was his tone of voice when he said he knew she “had tried to obtain evidence”.
So Maenton, too, thought that she was out for blood money! She ought to have spotted it at the time and corrected his inference. “You must not think that my purpose is to obtain a huge lump of money for myself. I would be too much of a moral prig to take it in such circumstances.”
In short, there would be no means of correcting that inference drawn by Veronica, by Maenton and by anybody else.
That evening, at the Red Lion, she saw Stranack go to the bar lounge reserved for residents. She remembered that a couple of days ago he had been looking for her, as reported by Eddis. Presently she followed, saw him sitting with his drink alone in a corner. There was no second glass on the table. She bought a drink for herself and strolled over.
He rose stiffly as she approached.
“I heard the other day that you were looking for me, Mr. Stranack … Can’t we sit down?”
“You must have heard that from Eddis.”
“Quite right! What can I do for you?”
“Nothing, now—thanks! A chambermaid with whom I am on friendly terms reports that you have quarrelled with Veronica.”
“I’m sure she is a very charming chambermaid, but she is not very accurate. Anyhow, wouldn’t it make me more careful?”
He looked at her thoughtfully as if he were in doubt. She met his gaze and it turned into the undressing gaze.
“You’re very lovely, Jill,” he said judiciously. “But we’re not the slightest use to each other.”
“The lovelier chambermaid got there first?”
“She isn’t lovely—she’s brainy—the new type.”
“New type of chambermaid—or old type of reporter?” asked Jill.
“Good Lord, I never thought of that!”
“She’ll make a sob story out of you. A science man is a romantic figure in the Sunday press. You’ve got everything. She’ll champion your cause for you. And then you’ll wish you had come to me instead.”
He was silent. It was true that he had got everything in the way of glamorous manhood, with the advantage of looking masculine instead of merely handsome.
“There would be no point in coming to you. All that’s happened since you kicked me out of the sitting room is that you’ve found I’m not an impostor. For your own reasons you now want to prove that Veronica was with me at the lockhouse. You have no evidence, and I have given every shred of mine to the police. Where do we start?”
“If you could tell me something individual about Veronica—never mind whether it’s legal evidence or not—and convince me that she was there with you, I could at least bias the police in your favour.”
“Then I’ll tell you something very characteristic. Your friend—as was!—said ‘yes’ when a decent woman would have felt bound to say ‘no’.”
“And a decent man wouldn’t have asked her!”
“True! I am the sort of man whose company nice women tend to avoid.”
“I suppose I asked for that one!” said Jill, rising. “Perhaps I’ll have better luck with Canvey.”
“I doubt it. You don’t know an impostor when you see one.”
She dined by herself, still young enough to eat a hearty meal in spite of her anxieties. Stranack’s rebuff did not weigh heavily. Eddis, in his own way, had been equally unforthcoming at the start. She could try him again after she had tackled Canvey.
It would be useless, she decided, to attempt any system of asking questions. The police were expert at that kind of thing and had achieved nothing. On such evidence as there was, Eddis was slightly ahead of the others—if only because his own attitude was the most convincing. Stranack was more convincing than Canvey, yet Stranack had the air of a glib liar, whereas Canvey had impressed her more forcibly than Eddis. True that he had repeated the discredited wedding ring story—it was common to all three—but he had done so without destroying the suggestion that he was a trustworthy man.
When she reached the lockhouse on the following morning Canvey was sitting on the lower gate, rod in hand, his eye fixed on his float. He did not move as she approached him. She supposed he was about to land a fish and herself gazed at the float, which revealed no agitation.
“Do you ever catch anything?” she asked.
“That is an irrelevant question,” he answered. “I have no foreknowledge that I am not about to do so.”
“It sounds to me a rather negative sort of pleasure.”
“That is because you assume that I desire to possess a fish. I do not. I am playing with the horrible danger of landing one at any moment.”
“The awful thing is,” she said, “that I believe you.”
“That’s a good beginning.” He reeled in. “I hoped you would come out here—I even believed it. If you remember, I prophesied that your friendship for Veronica would not outlast the case. But we shan’t get anywhere—I’ve shot my bolt.”
“Let’s try. You might just as well talk to me as play about with that rod.”
He stood the rod against the side of the house.
“You’ll ask questions, but I don’t think you’ll get any sense out of me. I’ve lost my bearings. My mind has become gramophonic ‘I was at the lockhouse—lockhouse—lockhouse’. Even Curwen winces. You’ve heard of the murderer’s conscience, haven’t you?”
“I’ve read about it, but I doubt if I’ve ever believed in it. And what could you know about it?”
“The murderer’s conscience is his horror at what he has done to himself. He has cut himself off from humanity with a secret he cannot share—turned himself into an exhibit, and in every man’s eyes he sees the pharisaical gloat that denies fellowship.”
“But if you haven’t committed the murder?”
“You’d be surprised what little difference that makes. Until recently, I was one of three men working together in a close comradeship of reciprocating talents. Now I am one of three terrified scoundrels, each bending his faculties to ensure that the o
ther two shall be convicted instead of himself.”
The words had been hurled at her like stones. She caught one and hurled it back.
“Then do it properly! Bend your own faculties to telling me something about Veronica which I know to be true.”
“I can tell you something about her. Veronica exposed me to myself. I looked into her eyes and saw myself as a superman and her as my fitting mate. Before she left me she held up a mirror—and I saw a voluptuary fooling himself with a puppet in a conventional debauch. A poupée de luxe if you like! She showed lots of nice feeling in declining my offer to see her into the car.”
Jill forced herself to remember that Eddis had made a point about her refusal to be seen into the car.
“That’s everything about her,” concluded Canvey. “You will be too wise to believe a word of it. You will tell me that I have been talking heady nonsense and you will be quite right.”
“Look at me, please,” said Jill. “Do you see—the ‘pharisaical gloat that denies fellowship’—?”
He looked at her and smiled.
“You wouldn’t know how. But what have I really said to you? ‘I was at the lockhouse—lockhouse—lockhouse.’ It’s time for elevenses. There’s a deck chair in the shade at the side of the house. I’ll join you in a couple of minutes.”
She strolled to the deck chair but did not sit down. Her confidence in herself was waning. She had been nearly convinced by Eddis because he had revealed himself as lonely and miserable and in need of her solace. She had feared that Stranack might be the one who was telling the truth because, behind his swagger, she had sensed a boldness that had compelled her regard. And now Canvey, who had accepted her approach as natural behaviour on her part, was crowding out the other two—she was already more than half way to certainty that he was the innocent man—without any evidence—because she felt that she and he were the same kind of person.
I’m just like Veronica, she thought. Sizing up the men on their appeal to me as men. I must be an erotic female without knowing it.