“Not very much. You can be there if you’re good.”
“Thank you, darling.”
Peter kneeled up and took her in his arms.
“Lee, you will—you will—you really will.”
Her eyes opened. They looked startlingly dark and clear. They met his own, and without a word denied him.
“Lee—”
It was a long time before she said “No.”
“Why?” said Peter in an angry voice.
Something sparkled behind the fallen lashes.
“You can’t marry everyone who asks you.”
“I don’t want you to. I want you to marry me.”
“I can’t think why.”
“You’re not required to think—you’re not very good at it anyhow.”
She opened her eyes and sat up.
“Peter, what an odious husband you’d make!”
“No, I shouldn’t. I should make a very good husband indeed. I have all the qualities you require—good thinking-apparatus, reliable character, honest, sober, hard-working—”
“What Nanna used to call a good-living young man,” said Lee, still with the sparkle.
“Well, you do know the worst of me.”
“We should quarrel.”
“Of course. All happily married couples quarrel.”
A light shiver went over her.
“What’s the matter?”
“Peter—when you said that—it sounded so nice and ordinary. Do you think we shall ever get back to being nice and ordinary again?”
“I hope so,” said Peter.
Chapter Sixteen
Miss Bingham came in with little tripping steps. Her head was poked forward and her eyes went here, there and everywhere. They had taken up the rug in the hall and washed the parquet. Such a relief. And in here, where poor Mr. Craddock’s body had lain in that shocking pool of blood—yes, that rug was gone too. And the parquet did really cover the whole of the floor. She had always wondered about that, because it might have been just a surround, and Lucy Craddock, who ought to have known, never seemed to be sure about it or take any interest. Even in her cradle Miss Bingham had always taken an interest in everything.
She sat and preened herself in the chair which Detective Abbott set for her. She had dressed as carefully as if she were going to a wedding or a bazaar, the two most exciting social events within her orbit. But this was far more exciting than either. Everyone went to bazaars and weddings, but to be an important witness in a sensational murder case was something to distinguish one for ever.
She wore her best dress, a brown artificial silk with rather a bright zigzag orange pattern, and she had put on a new hair-net. She was very proud of the fact that there was so little grey in her hair. There wasn’t very much of it, but back-combed and well fluffed up under the net it could be made the best of, and it was still a very good dark brown. Under the fuzzy fringe and the rather marked dark eyebrows, Miss Bingham’s eyes were as sharp and bright and restless as a squirrel’s, and her cheeks as hard and red as August apples. There were a great many inquisitive lines about the eyes, and two very heavy ones running down from the nose to the chin. It was these lines which gave the upper lip a rather jutting appearance. About her neck Miss Bingham wore a long gold chain which had been her father’s watchchain, and a string of bog-oak beads which had belonged to her mother.
She sat on the edge of her chair, and gave her name as Wilhelmina Ethel Bingham, unmarried. She occupied flat No. 12, immediately over Miss Mary Craddock’s flat.
“That is to say, Inspector, it was Miss Mary Craddock’s flat. A very dear friend of mine—a very dear friend indeed, and a most patient sufferer. An example to us all, I’m sure—”
“Quite so,” said the Inspector. “Mr. Renshaw is now occupying the flat.”
Miss Bingham bridled.
“I could hardly fail to be aware of that. All the years I have lived above Miss Craddock I never had to complain about a sound, but from the time Mr. Renshaw came in it has been a very different story.”
“Noisy—eh?” said the Inspector.
Miss Bingham slightly closed her eyes.
“Would you believe me if I were to tell you that he throws his boots across the room, positively throws them, every night when he takes them off—and several times during the day.”
“Very disturbing,” said the Inspector. “Well now, Miss Bingham, I can see you’re a lady that notices things. What I want to know is whether you noticed anything unusual last night.”
“Indeed I did, Inspector—and I can only say that, shocking as it all is, I am not surprised. Over and over again I have said both to Lucy and to Mary Craddock that what was going on in this house was a scandal—right under their noses too. Over and over again I’ve said that something would happen if it went on. Why, I’ve even thought of moving—after being here ten years—so that will show you how I’ve felt about it.”
The Inspector cleared his throat.
“About last night, Miss Bingham—”
“Yes, yes—oh, yes. But we must take everything in order, mustn’t we, Inspector?” She rummaged in a black suede bag and produced a rather crumpled sheet of paper. “Method—that’s what I always say. Most important, isn’t it? I am sure you will agree. I have made a few jottings—just a few heads, you know—and if you will permit me, I will keep to my heads. ‘Begin at the beginning and keep straight on to the end.’ That is what my dear father used to say, and I have found it a most excellent rule.” She coughed slightly. “My first head—”
The Inspector pushed his chair back with a loud scraping sound.
“I should be obliged if you would keep to the point, Miss Bingham.”
“Yes, yes—so very necessary—I quite agree.”
“Since you have been here so long and are acquainted with all these people—”
“Yes, yes—that brings me to my first head—Mr. Craddock’s Relations with his Relations—a humorous touch which I could hardly resist, though perhaps in the circumstances not quite suitable.”
Inspector Lamb drew a long breath.
“I shall be glad to hear anything you have to say on that subject.”
He received an arch glance.
“Method, you see, Inspector—method. That was my first head. It is, naturally, painful to me to have to say so, but I feel I must be perfectly frank, and I can only say that Mr. Craddock’s relations with his—er—relatives were not at all good. Oh, dear me, no—quite the reverse. My poor friend Lucy Craddock cried to me, positively cried, over his dissipated ways and his total lack of consideration for the family name and for her feelings. I happen to know that she was most distressed and anxious over his scandalous pursuit of her niece.”
“Was that Miss Mavis Grey?”
“Yes, Mavis Grey. I see you have already heard something on that point. Over and over again Lucy begged him to desist. And only yesterday I happened to be coming down the stairs, and I saw him pushing my poor friend, actually pushing her, out of his front door, and I heard what he said. Anyone might have heard it, for he spoke quite loud—and how a man who had had the upbringing of a gentleman could so far forget himself—”
“What did he say?”
Miss Bingham tossed her head.
“‘Old maid cousins should be seen and not heard.’ That’s what he said! And poor Lucy stood there just as if she had been turned to stone, until Peter Renshaw came upstairs, and when he asked her what was the matter she burst out crying and said, ‘He’s wicked!’ And I know, because Mrs. Green told me, that he was going to turn Lucy out! After she’d been thirty years in that flat of hers! I don’t wonder she said he was wicked!”
“Mr. Craddock’s relations with Miss Lucy Craddock were not good then. Now what about Mr. Renshaw? What sort of terms was he on with him?”
“Not at all good terms,” said Miss Bingham, shaking her head. “Why, I’ve seen Mr. Renshaw walk all the way up the stairs rather than go in the lift with his cousin. Oh, yes, anyone
could tell you that they didn’t get on—oh, no, not at all.”
“And Miss Fenton?”
“Well, I couldn’t say very much about Miss Fenton. She’s not a young woman I care for particularly—far too off-hand in her manner. I believe Lucy Craddock is very fond of her. I can’t think why, because the girl quite refused to be guided by Lucy’s advice and insisted, absolutely insisted, on going off to South America or somewhere. I may say I was most surprised to find that she was here in Lucy Craddock’s flat. I quite understood that she had started for South America.”
“You didn’t know of any ill feeling between her and Mr. Craddock?”
A disappointed look crossed Miss Bingham’s face. She did the best she could.
“They were not at all friendly,” she said. “And that brings me to my second head—Events of Last Night.”
The Inspector hitched himself up in his chair. Detective Abbott, who had been gazing at the ceiling, brought his eyes to the writing-table again. Eavesdropping old cats had their uses. She might have something to tell, or she might not. He thought she had. She looked like a cat who had been at the cream, and—oh gosh, what a witness she was going to make!
She was speaking.
“Of course, I don’t know, Inspector, what Mr. Renshaw has told you. I have had no communication with him, I can assure you. He may have made a frank and honest statement, or he may not—it is not for me to say. I am making no allegations. If I have my suspicions, it is because my knowledge of human nature tells me that young men are very unreliable when there is a young woman in the case. Even Lucy Craddock, who has been regrettably weak with her, is forced to admit that the girl is a flirt. Though why anyone should think her pretty I do not understand, but a young man like Peter Renshaw—”
The Inspector leaned forward and raised his voice.
“Here, Miss Bingham, what are you talking about?”
Miss Bingham opened her black suede bag, rummaged in it, said “Dear, dear!” under her breath, rummaged again, produced a clean folded pocket handkerchief with a mauve border, dabbed at her nose to remove a bead of moisture from its tip, and said sharply,
“Mavis Grey and Peter Renshaw.”
“What about them?”
She threw him a bright, triumphant look.
“Then he didn’t tell you.”
“He didn’t tell me what?”
“That she spent the night in his flat.”
The Inspector hit the writing-table with the palm of his left hand.
“Who spent the night in whose flat?”
Miss Bingham coughed.
“Of course you realize, Inspector, that this is an awkward subject. It is, naturally, very unpleasant for me to have to mention such a thing, but when it comes to murder—”
“Who spent the night in whose flat?” said Inspector Lamb.
Miss Bingham shook her head.
“I felt sure he wouldn’t tell you. Such a false code of honour. Very wrong—very wrong indeed. Perhaps I had better tell you what I saw and heard.”
“I think you had.”
Miss Bingham glanced at her crumpled sheet of paper.
“I had been beginning at the beginning. Method, you know, method. I have a portable wireless set—with earphones, because I do not think it right to disturb others for my own pleasure. Most inconsiderate—most inconsiderate and selfish, is what I always have said and always will say. So I use earphones.”
Detective Abbott looked at the ceiling. How much of this could old Lamb stand before he started to foam and bite the carpet?
Miss Bingham patted her hair-net complacently and continued.
“I take the second news, and after that I retire for the night. I do not generally put my light out until half past eleven. I may have been a little later than that last night, but it would not be more than a few minutes. I did not go to sleep. I heard Mr. Renshaw come in. My clock struck twelve just about then, and it was no use my thinking about sleep until he had finished going to bed. He has a peculiarly noisy way of opening and shutting drawers. Really, after having my dear friend Mary Craddock there for so long it is most disturbing, most unpleasantly disturbing. Then when I did get to sleep, it seemed to me that I was almost immediately awakened. It was a sound that had waked me, I am sure—something of an unusual nature.”
“Was it a shot?”
“That is what I cannot say. My bedroom is over the sitting-room of Mary Craddock’s flat. She used the larger and better room as a bedroom on account of being an invalid, so I was not so near to Mr. Craddock’s flat as if I had been in my sitting-room, but I had all the doors open inside the flat. The night was exceptionally sultry, and I am convinced that the sound I heard came from the floor below, and from the direction of number eight. I am sure of this, because my first thought was that Mr. Craddock had no business to disturb us all in the middle of the night. I put on my dressing-gown and went out on the landing. The light burns there all night, but I turned it out because I naturally did not wish to be seen. I then went a little way down the stairs and looked over the banisters. Oh, Inspector—what did I see?”
“You’d better tell us,” said the Inspector drily.
Miss Bingham’s eyes were glittering with excitement.
“Well, there was Mr. Craddock in his doorway with his hand up to his head and blood all over it. And there was Peter Renshaw over by his door, and that girl Mavis Grey with her arms round his neck, crying, and sobbing, and saying, ‘Oh, don’t let him touch me!’ ”
“You say you saw all this. Where were you?”
“Of course I saw it all! You don’t think I would make a thing like that up, I hope! I looked between the banisters, and through the lift shaft. There is only the steel framework when the lift isn’t up. And Mr. Renshaw said, ‘What have you done to her?’ And Mr. Craddock said he hadn’t done anything. And he said it was the girl who had hurt him—at least that is what he meant.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘I was the one that got hurt.’ And he said, ‘I’ve had enough.’ And then Mr. Renshaw took that girl into poor Mary Craddock’s flat and banged the door.”
“Is that all you heard them say? Remember that this is important and you must be as accurate as you can. Don’t leave anything out, and don’t put anything in.”
“You needn’t caution me about being accurate, Inspector. Often and often my friends have told me that I have an absolutely photographic memory. Now let me see—he said that girl had hurt him—”
“I don’t think that is quite accurate.”
“That is what he meant,” said Miss Bingham firmly. “He looked quite dazed, and I’m sure the blood was simply pouring down his face. And I’ve always said that if a girl leads a man on she has only herself to thank for what happens. What was she doing in his flat at one o’clock in the morning? Shameless, I call it—shameless! And then she throws her arms round Peter Renshaw’s neck and says, ‘Don’t let him touch me!’ ”
“In fact, you gathered that Mr. Craddock had alarmed Miss Grey to such an extent that she threw herself on Mr. Renshaw’s protection after striking Mr. Craddock with—well, there’s no harm in saying that it must have been the decanter, because we found it broken and there was glass in the wound.”
“But that wouldn’t have killed him, Inspector.”
“Mr. Craddock was shot.” The Inspector’s tone was curt. “Now, Miss Bingham, I should like to know how Miss Grey was dressed, if you don’t mind.”
“Full evening dress, Inspector. Silver lamé, and her poor Aunt Mary not dead a month! I don’t know what girls are coming to! And no back to it!”
The Inspector wiped his brow.
“Well, what happened after Mr. Renshaw and Miss Grey had gone into number nine?”
“Mr. Craddock went back into his flat.”
“And then?”
Miss Bingham hesitated, sniffed slightly, and said,
“I wanted to see if that shameless girl was really going to stay.”
“How long did you wait?”
“Half an hour. I said to myself, ‘I will give her half an hour, and if she doesn’t come out then, well, I shall know what to think.’ And I did. It was exactly half past one when I put my light out.”
“That puts the murder at some time after half past one. After you put your light out did you go to sleep?”
“Not immediately—oh, no, I was too much horrified and disgusted. I heard the clock strike two.”
“And no sound from down below?”
“Not then.”
“What do you mean by not then?”
“Ah!” Miss Bingham put up a hand and pulled at her bog-oak necklace. “Ah! That is where I feel that my evidence is extremely important, because if Mr. Craddock was shot, you must of course want to know when the shot was fired.”
“Did you hear it?” said the Inspector quickly.
Miss Bingham looked at him archly.
“I heard something. But I mustn’t say it was a shot, must I—not unless I am perfectly sure, because of course I shall be on my oath, and you said yourself that I must be very accurate.”
Inspector Lamb controlled himself and sat back.
“Would you kindly tell me what you heard, Miss Bingham?”
“Ah, but that is just what I cannot do, Inspector. I woke up—I am an extremely light sleeper, and there was something very heavy passing down the road. The traffic is shocking nowadays—so bad for the nervous system.”
The Inspector’s voice grated a little as he said,
“I am not asking you about the traffic. I am asking you if you heard anything that might have been a shot.”
Miss Bingham shook a finger at him reprovingly.
“Ah, yes, yes—but don’t you see that if the shot was fired at that moment, it is very unlikely that anyone would have heard it. The vehicle that was passing must have been exceptionally heavy—one of those great brewer’s drays perhaps. And—it is extremely shocking to think of—but would not a person who meant to make a murderous attack on Mr. Craddock be likely to avail himself of just such an opportunity? I can assure you that the windows quite rattled.”
“To say that a thing might happen isn’t to say that it did happen,” said the Inspector tersely. “I’m afraid if that is all you have to tell us—”
The Blind Side: An Ernest Lamb Mystery Page 9