Possible answers: that George would have refused to divorce Violet, and/or Rhoda ditto Carfax; that, by going off together they would have left Phil in the hands of George and Ethel Rattery, a thing Violet would surely have shrunk from. Plausible. We must investigate the relations between V. and C. more thoroughly. But, unless it was sheer coincidence that the poisoning took place on the same day as Felix’s attempted murder (which is almost unthinkable), the murderer must have been wise to Felix’s plan – either through being taken into George’s confidence or having discovered the diary independently. The former is unlikely in the case of Violet and Carfax, but V. might have found the diary.
Conclusion. One cannot disregard a possible conspiracy between Carfax and Violet. It’s noticeable, by the way, that whenever I’ve been at the Ratterys’ house, Carfax was not there. As her husband’s partner and a friend of the family, Carfax might have been expected to be in attendance – giving Violet all the help and comfort possible. The fact that he has not been doing so may suggest he is unwilling to give us any opening for suspecting a guilty relationship between them. On the other hand, Carfax’s attitude when interviewed by Blount was remarkably open, candid and consistent, and at the same time sufficiently unusual to compel credence. It is difficult for a criminal to carry off consistently a false moral attitude towards his recent victim – much more difficult than the mere carrying through of a prearranged plan (alibi, concealment of motive, etc.) I am inclined, provisionally, to believe in Carfax’s innocence.
That leaves Ethel Rattery and Felix. The case against Felix is superficially by far the stronger. Means, motive, everything – even a confession of intent. But it is just there, at the diary, that it breaks down. It is just – but only just – conceivable that Felix should have prepared a second weapon (the poison) to work in case his dinghy plan failed. I cannot, in fact, bring myself to believe that he is either cold-blooded or mad enough to indulge in such complex strategy. But suppose for a moment that he did. What is absolutely inconceivable is that, after having had the tables turned on him in the dinghy, and after being told by George that his diary was in the hands of solicitors and would be made public in the event of George’s death, Felix should allow the strychnine plan to go through.
To do so was simply to put his head into a noose and jump off into thin air. If Felix had doctored the tonic, he would inevitably – once he knew George’s death meant his own destruction – have either told George about the poison or else have slipped into the house before dinner and removed the bottle. Unless, of course, he was so crazed with hatred against George because of Martin’s death that he did not mind committing hara-kiri in the process as long as he killed George. But, if Felix had no regard at all for saving his own neck, why should he take all the trouble to work out a murder plan which would look like a drowning accident, and why should he get me down here to save his bacon for him? The only possible answer to all this is that Felix did not put the poison in the tonic. I do not believe he murdered George Rattery; it’s against all probability and all logic.
Which leaves Ethel Rattery. A wicked, wicked woman. But did she kill her own son? And if, as I think, she did, will there ever be any way of proving it? George’s murder is typical of the sort of egotistical high-handedness one associates with Ethel Rattery. No attempt on her part to trail red herrings – though to be sure there was no need for that, since she knew that all suspicion would fall upon Cairnes. No attempt to create an alibi for herself for Saturday afternoon, when the bottle was tampered with. She just dopes the medicine and sits back on her excessive haunches till George drinks it. And then issues an edict to Blount that the affair had better be called an accident. ‘Disposer supreme and judge of the earth’ is the role she sees herself playing. There’s an almost aggressive lack of subtlety about George’s poisoning that squares very well with Ethel Rattery’s character. But is the motive strong enough? When it came to the point, would she act upon her own dictum that ‘killing is no murder where honour is at stake’? Maybe I shall get enough material from old Shrivenham, or one of his cronies, to decide on that point. In the meantime …
Nigel sighed wearily. He glanced through what he had written, grimaced, and set a match to the sheets of paper. The grandfather clock in the hall outside gave a long, bronchial wheeze, gasped, announced that the time was midnight. Nigel took up the folder in which was fastened a carbon copy of Felix Cairnes’ diary. Something caught his eye on the page at which it fell open. His body stiffened, his tired brain became suddenly alert. He began to flick the pages, looking for another reference. An extraordinary idea began to build up in his head – a pattern so logical, so neat, so convincing, that he had to distrust it. It was too like one of those marvellous poems one composes on the edge of sleep and looks at again in the disillusioned light of morning and finds commonplace, meaningless or mad. Nigel decided to leave it till the morning; he was not in a state now to test its truth; he shrank from its harsh implications. Yawning, he got up, put the folder under his arm and made for the door of the writing room.
He turned off the electric light and opened the door. The hall outside was dark as death. Nigel groped across the hall towards the electric light switches on the opposite wall, feeling his way with his hand on the front door. I wonder is Georgia asleep, he thought, and at that moment there was a swishing sound in the darkness and something came out of the darkness and struck him on the side of the head …
Darkness. A black velvet curtain against which painful lights flared, danced, dithered and went out. A firework ballet. He watched it without curiosity; he wished these lights would stop fooling about, because he wanted to open the black curtain and they got in the way. Presently the lights stopped fooling about. The black velvet curtain remained. Now he could walk forward and open the curtain, though he must first remove this hard board which seemed to be strapped to his back. Why was there a board strapped to his back? He must be a sandwich-man. For a moment he remained still, delighted by the brilliance of this deduction. Then he started to walk towards the black curtain. Instantly a blinding pain shot through his head and the firework ballet started up again with furious empressement. He let it dance to its finish. When that was over, very gingerly he allowed his brain to begin working: let the clutch in too suddenly and the whole damned contraption would fall to pieces.
I cannot walk towards that beautiful, black velvet curtain, because because because because I am not on my feet and this board strapped to my back isn’t a board at all it’s the floor. But no one can have the floor strapped to his back. No, a very sound point, if you allow me to say so. I am lying on the floor. Lying on the floor. Good. Why am I lying on the floor? Because because because – I remember now – something came out of the velvet curtain and caught me a crack. A very dirty crack. Joke. In that case I am dead. The problem of whatjercallit is now solved. Problem of Survival. Life after death. I am dead, but aware of existence. Cogito, ergo sum. Therefore I have Survived. I am one of the Great Majority. Or am I? Possibly I am not dead. The dead, surely, do not suffer from bloody awful headaches. It’s not in the contract at all. So I’m alive. I’ve proved it by incontro – uncontro – whatever it is, logic. Well, well, well.
Nigel put his hand to the side of his head. Sticky. Blood. Very slowly he dragged himself to his feet, felt his way to the wall and switched on the lights. Their sudden glare stunned him for a moment. When he could open his eyes again, he looked round the hall. It was empty. Empty except for an old putter and the carbon copy of the diary which lay on the floor. Nigel became aware that he was cold. His shirt was all unbuttoned. He buttoned it up, bent down painfully to collect the putter and the diary, and struggled upstairs carrying them.
Georgia regarded him sleepily from the bed.
‘Hello, darling. Did you have a nice round of golf?’ she said.
‘Well, as a matter of fact, no. A bird wonked me with this. Not cricket. Not golf, I mean. On the head.’
Nigel beamed fatuously at Georgia and slid
, not without grace, to the floor.
16
‘DARLING, YOU’RE NOT to get up.’
‘I certainly am going to get up. I’ve got to see old Shrivellem this morning.’
‘You can’t get up when you’ve got a hole in your head.’
‘Hole or no hole, I’m going to see old Shrivellem. Get them to send up some breakfast. The car’ll be here at ten. You can come with me if you like and see that I don’t tear the bandage off in my delirium.’
Georgia’s voice trembled. ‘Oh, my sweet, and to think I kept on reminding you to get your hair cut. And it was your thick hair saved you – and your thick head. And you’re not going to get up.’
‘Darling Georgia, I love you more than ever, and I am going to get up. I began to see the light last night, before that bird made a pass at me with the putter. And I’ve a feeling old Shrivellem will be able to – besides, it’ll be no harm to put myself under the protection of the military for a few hours.’
‘Why – you don’t think he’d try it again? Who was it?’
‘Search me. No, I don’t anticipate a repetition of the outrage. Not really. Not in broad daylight. Besides, my shirt was unbuttoned.’
‘Nigel, are you sure you aren’t wandering?’
‘Quite sure.’
While Nigel was having breakfast, Inspector Blount was shown in. The Inspector looked rather worried.
‘Your good wife has been telling me you refuse to stay in bed. Are you sure you’re quite up to –?’
‘Yes, of course I am. I thrive on blows from putters. By the way, did you find any fingerprints on it?’
‘No. The leather’s too rough to take impressions. We found a queer thing, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The French windows in the dining room here were unlocked. The waiter swears he locked them up at ten o’clock last night.’
‘Well, what’s queer about that? The bird who clouted me must have got in and out somehow.’
‘How could he get in if they were locked? Are you suggesting he had an accomplice?’
‘He could have got in before ten o’clock, and hidden himself – or herself, couldn’t he?’
‘Well, it’s just possible. But how could any outsider know that you’d be sitting up till all hours – till the lights had been turned off in the hall and he could attack you without being seen?’
‘I see,’ said Nigel slowly. ‘Yes, I see.’
‘It doesn’t look too well for Felix Cairnes.’
‘Have you any explanation why Felix, having paid for the services of a not inexpensive detective, should then proceed to bat him over the head with a golf club?’ asked Nigel, examining a piece of toast. ‘Wouldn’t that be – as they somewhat inelegantly express it – fouling his own nest?’
‘Maybe – mind you, it’s only a suggestion – maybe he had some reason for wanting you disabled just now.’
‘Well, presumably there must have been some such idea at the back of my – er – assailant’s head. I mean, he wasn’t just practising strokes in the hall,’ Nigel chaffed the Inspector. But he was thinking, Felix did seem rather obstructive about this little visit of mine to General Shrivenham. Blount still looked harassed.
He said, ‘But that isn’t really the queer thing. You see, Mr Strangeways, we’ve found fingerprints on the key and inside handle of the French windows and also on the handle and glass outside. As though someone had closed it with one hand on the glass and one on the handle.’
‘I don’t see anything so bizarre about that.’
‘Wait a minute though. The prints are not those of anyone on the hotel staff, nor do they belong to anyone so far connected with the case. And there are no visitors but yourselves staying here now.’
Nigel sat up with a jerk that sent a twinge of pain through his head.
‘So it couldn’t have been Felix after all.’
‘That’s what’s so queer. Cairnes would have struck you down, and then unlocked the French window – using a handkerchief when he turned the key – to suggest you had been attacked by someone from outside. But who left those prints on the outside of the window?’
‘This is too much,’ groaned Nigel. ‘Dragging a mysterious unknown into the case just when – oh well, I’ll leave that to you. It will give you something to do while I’m talking to General Shrivenham …’
Half an hour later, Nigel and Georgia were tucking themselves into the back of the hired car. And it was just at that moment that a housemaid, belated in her work as a result of Blount’s early-morning investigations in the hotel, entered the bedroom of Phil Rattery …
A little before eleven o’clock their car drew up outside General Shrivenham’s house. The front door was opened and they entered a spacious lounge-hall whose walls and floors were covered with tiger skins and other trophies of the chase. Even Georgia recoiled slightly from the ferocious, white-fanged jaws that grinned at them from all sides.
‘D’you think one of the servants has to clean their teeth every morning?’ she whispered to Nigel.
‘More than probable. Mine eyes dazzle. They died young.’
The maid opened a door on the left of the hall. From it there proceeded the faint, whinging aerial music of a clavichord; someone was rendering, with rather moderate skill, Bach’s Prelude in C Major. The tiny, dainty notes seemed drowned by the voiceless roaring of all the tigers in the hall. The prelude closed in a long, quivering whine, and the unseen player launched out industriously upon the fugue. Georgia and Nigel stood fascinated. Finally the music ended. They heard a voice say, ‘Who? What? Oh, why didn’t you show them in? Can’t have people standing about in the passage.’
An old gentleman appeared at the door, clad in knickerbockers, Norfolk coat, and a tweed fishing hat. He blinked at them mildly with his faded blue eyes.
‘Admiring my trophies?’
‘Yes. And the music too,’ said Nigel. ‘The most lovely of the preludes, isn’t it?’
‘I’m glad to hear you say so. I think it is, but then I’m quite unmusical. Unmusical. ’S matter of fact, I’m still teaching myself to play. Bought this instrument a few months ago. Clavichord. Beautiful instrument. The kind of music you’d expect fairies to dance to. Ariel’s spirits, you know. What did you say your name was?’
‘Strangeways. Nigel Strangeways. This is my wife.’
The General shook hands with them both, eyeing Georgia with a markedly flirtatious look. Georgia smiled at him, fighting down an almost irrepressible desire to ask this charming old gentleman whether he always wore a tweed fishing hat to play Bach. It seemed to her the most entirely suitable wear.
‘We’ve got a letter of introduction from Frank Cairnes.’
‘Cairnes? Yes. Poor fellow, his little boy was run over, you know. Killed. Terrible tragedy. I say, he hasn’t lost his reason, has he?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Extraordinary thing happened the other day. Extraordinary. In Cheltenham. I go over and have tea there every Thursday, at Banners’. I do a flick and then have tea. Best chocolate cakes in England at Banners’ – you ought to try ’em. Make a pig of myself. Well, anyway, I went into Banners’ and I could have sworn it was Cairnes sitting at a table in the corner. Smallish fellow, with a beard. Cairnes went away from the village here a couple of months ago, you know, but I rather think he was starting his beard before he left. Don’t like beards myself. Wear ’em in the navy, I know, but the navy haven’t won a battle since Trafalgar, don’t know what’s wrong with ’em, look at the Mediterranean now. Where was I? Oh yes, Cairnes. Well, this chap who I thought was Cairnes – I went over to speak to him but he shot away like a stoat, he and this other fella who was sitting with him, big fella with a moustache, looked a bit of a bounder to me. I mean Cairnes – or the chap I thought was Cairnes – shot away like a stoat and hustled the other fella, the bounder, along with him. I called out his name after him, but he didn’t pay any attention, so I said to myself, that fella can’t be Cairnes at all. Th
en afterwards I thought, well maybe it was Cairnes and he’s lost his memory, like those chaps in the BBC – you know the SOS messages. That’s why I asked you if Cairnes had lost his reason. Always was a bit of a queer fish, Cairnes, but I can’t understand his going about with a bounder like that fellow in Banners’ if he was in his right mind.’
‘Do you remember what date that was?’
‘Let me see. It was the week –’ The General consulted a pocket diary. ‘Yes, here we are, August the 12th.’
Nigel had promised Felix that he would keep the Rattery affair dark when he talked with the General, but the General seemed to have landed himself unwittingly into the middle of it. For the present, he felt inclined to relax in this charming, Alice in Wonderland atmosphere, where a retired warrior played the clavichord and accepted as the most natural thing in the world the arrival of a stranger with a bandaged head and a famous wife. General Shrivenham was already deep in conversation with Georgia, on the subject of bird life in the valleys of Northern Burma. Nigel sat back, trying to fit into his tentative pattern the odd little episode which had befallen the General in Banners’ tea shop. His thoughts were interrupted at last by the General saying, ‘I see your husband has been in the wars lately.’
‘Yes,’ said Nigel, feeling his bandage tenderly. ‘As a matter of fact a chap hit me over the head with a putter.’
‘A putter? Well, I’m not surprised. Get all sorts of rag, tag and bobtail on golf courses today. Not that it was ever much of a game – stationary ball, like potting at a sitting bird, not a gentlemen’s game at all. Look at the Scotch – they imported it – the most uncivilised race in Europe – no art, no music, no poetry to speak of, Burns excepted of course, and look at their idea of food – haggis and Edinburgh rock. Show me how a nation eats and I’ll show you its soul. Polo, now – that’s a different matter. Used to play a bit myself in India. Polo. Golf is just polo with all the difficulty and excitement taken out of it. A prose version of polo, a paraphrase of it; typical of the Scots, reducing everything to their own prosy level – they had to paraphrase the Psalms even. Horrible. Vandals. Barbarians. I bet this fella who hit you with the putter had Scottish blood in his veins. Fine troops they make, mind you. About all they’re good for.’
The Beast Must Die Page 19