by Bruce, Leo
“But what was the important information, Major Natterley? It has become an urgent matter.”
“Oh, little things we have noticed,” said the Major airily.
“Such as?”
“We cannot call to mind at a moment’s notice the very matters we intended to confide in you. After all, it is somewhat late and we are in the habit of retiring early. Perhaps tomorrow …”
“Tomorrow may be too late.”
“Too late for what?” put in Dora Natterley with a sweetness Carolus disliked.
“Too late to prevent another incident, probably involving both of you.”
“Involving us? You can’t be serious. How can we possibly be involved in matters which we have been so careful to avoid?”
“I think you know the answer to that one, Major Natterley.”
“You mean the matter of the Dormatoze tablets which Mrs Mallister was taking? That is simply told. Through a series of circumstances which, you may be sure, were quite fortuitous, since we never wish to pry into other people’s affairs, we became aware that Sonia Reid had a supply of the tablets used by the late Mrs Mallister. We thought the circumstance most curious since they are rarely prescribed by doctors. Most unwisely, as we now think, we departed from our principles sufficiently to ask her about this, and she at first denied having any, then became rather rude.”
“I do not mean the matter of the Dormatoze tablets,” said Carolus. “I was fully aware of that.”
“From Mrs Gort, no doubt? “He turned to his wife. “You see, my dear, how unwise it is to confide in anyone in this house? We shall not do so again.”
“I think you will, Major Natterley. I think you will give me here and now certain information which you have so far concealed.”
The Major rose to his feet. “Are you threatening us, sir?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Carolus. Then, more calmly: “At least you are certainly being threatened, if not by me. You—or one of you—are in a situation of real danger.”
“This is preposterous! How can we be in any danger?”
“You yourself have said that you believe a murderer often finds himself under the necessity of striking again.”
“We may have said that, yes, and it seems more than likely that we were right, as events have shown. But it doesn’t concern us.”
“It didn’t, last time.”
The Major took a lofty attitude, not an easy matter for a small man. “So you are saying in effect that, unless we give you some so-called information which we are supposed to possess, our lives may be in danger?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life,” said Major Natterley, driven to the first person singular by his indignation. “I shall see the police in the morning.”
“That would be the wisest thing you could possibly do,” said Carolus. “But not in the morning. Tonight. Now, Major Natterley. I suggest you phone them at once, for I may say that, if I fail to persuade you to confide either in them or me, I shall go to them at once.”
“Are you suggesting that we have something to hide? Something to be ashamed of?”
“Only in so far as you have impeded the course of justice by failing to give all the relevant facts to those investigating.”
It was possible that the Major might have held out, but at this point Dora Natterley began quietly to cry.
“You have upset my wife,” said Major Natterley. “You come here late at night with a cock-and-bull story about our having dangerous information …”
Carolus knew that the man was weakening. Since he did not at once say ‘I must ask you to leave’, there was more to come.
“May we ask,” the Major began again when he had patted his wife’s shoulder and handed her a clean handkerchief, “what this supposed information concerns?”
Carolus had kept this, hoping that he would not have to fire it. But he gave it to them now, with both barrels as it were. “It concerns the visit made to you by Sonia Reid about an hour before her death.”
He stopped, and there was silence in the room but for Dora’s renewed sobs. At last the Major spoke—quite boldly in the circumstances.
“Oh that?” he said. “Why couldn’t you say so? It does not seem much to make a fuss about. She did look in for a minute. What about it?”
“Have we got to go through all this, Major Natterley? Why on earth can’t you be sensible about it? You know perfectly well the importance of that visit.”
“Beyond the fact that we may have been the last people she spoke to, I can’t see any importance.”
“Why did she come here?”
“To inquire after my wife, who had complained of a headache that evening.”
“But you were scarcely on speaking terms since the matter of the Dormatoze tablets?”
“That is an exaggeration. We did not dislike Sonia Reid. She was scarcely our sort, of course, but there was no hostility.”
“What brought her here?”
“It would be interesting to know how you became aware that she … looked in for a moment.”
“It is my business to know these things. I am also aware that she took every precaution against being seen. As you must have noticed.”
“There was nothing extraordinary in the thing,” said Major Natterley, regaining some of his composure. “We didn’t think it worth mentioning to the police. She just looked in to ask how my wife was …”
“She was here for at least twenty minutes,” said Carolus. This was his first piece of bluff, but it worked.
“She may have been. Time passes when one is chatting. We do not time our guests’ visits.”
“You don’t intend to tell me why she came?”
“You know that. To inquire …”
“Major Natterley, I know why she came. And if you have any sense, you know I know why she came.”
“You tell us, then,” said the Major, still hoping that there was an element of bluff in Carolus which he could call.
“I will,” said Carolus. “She wanted you to look after something for her.”
There were renewed sobs from Dora and a look of real fury on the Major’s face. “And why not, sir?” he said. “We are the kind of people to whom others can confide their valuables and their secrets. We are not the kind of people to reveal them to the first inquisitive snooper who comes here asking questions.”
“So you accepted the sealed envelope?” said Carolus calmly.
“Certainly,” said the Major defiantly. “Why should we refuse such a simple request?”
“You mean … you still have it?”
“It is in a safe deposit at our bank.”
“You did not think it your duty after the girl’s death to reveal these facts?”
“Mr Deene, we refuse to associate ourselves with police inquiries and things of that sort. If you feel that the envelope should now be opened, you may accompany us to the bank tomorrow and—since you are evidently aware of so much of this sordid matter—we will examine the contents together.”
“I would give a great deal to do that,” said Carolus, “but frankly I daren’t. We should all be laying ourselves open to a serious charge. No, Major Natterley, there is only one course open to you. Go to the police station tomorrow morning as early as possible, ask for the C.I.D. man concerned in events at Cat’s Cradle, and tell him about this. Make what excuse you like for not having done so before—that you did not realize the importance of it, or whatever you think best. He will go with you and take possession of the envelope.”
“You really think that is necessary?”
“It is vital. For your own sake and your wife’s.”
“But what can be in this envelope of such moment?”
“I don’t know, exactly, though I have an idea. I can tell you that it has already cost one and, in a sense, two lives.”
Major Natterley looked sobered. “It is most distasteful for us …” he began.
“Murder is distasteful,” said Carolus s
hortly.
Mrs Natterley was calmer now. In fact, the couple seemed to have found a kind of relief in having their secret drawn out of them.
“It is not that we are ungrateful for your warning,” said Major Natterley. “We did not perhaps realize the full gravity of the matter.”
“We have been a little uncomfortable about it,” said his wife.
Carolus could not bear this complacency. “Uncomfortable?” he said. “I should like you to realize that, if it had not been for the discretion of two people in this house, you might well … Do you keep a revolver, Major Natterley?”
“We do,” said the Major.
“Then keep it beside you tonight. And lock your doors. That may sound melodramatic, but it is a precaution I feel I must advise.”
“Well do as you say. We little thought when in a moment, which we see now to have been one of weakness, we agreed to keep this packet for the night …”
“So it was only for the night that Sonia asked you to keep it?”
“That’s all. She said she would collect it first thing in the morning. Her room had already been searched, she said, and this was a private, family matter.”
“That’s interesting. Did she seem in a hurry?”
“She glanced at her watch a couple of times, certainly. Not very polite, we felt.”
“She did not say whether or not she had asked anyone else to take charge of it?”
“No. She said nothing to that effect.”
“Did she seem nervous?”
“Not really. She had, we had often noticed, a rather smirking way with her, as though she was continually getting the better of someone else.”
“That, I think, was what she was trying to do, poor girl.”
As though he was suggesting something eccentric, almost unheard-of, the Major said: “It is probably too late to offer you a drink, Deene?”
“Not in the least,” replied Carolus. “A very happy thought. Just the time for my nightcap.”
“What is your nightcap?” the Major asked apprehensively.
“Three fingers of Scotch and up to the brim with soda,” said Carolus cheerfully and turned to the sideboard to assist the operation.
“Dora?” asked the Major, on safer ground now.
“We don’t usually drink so late at night,” Mrs Natterley said to Carolus, “but after the shock you have given us we should have something, I think. A brandy please, dear.”
In the face of this the Major himself could scarcely refrain and with a whisky in his hand said rather lugubriously: “Cheerio!”
“Cheers! “retorted Carolus and tossed back his drink with hearty abandon. “Do you know,” he said gaily, “I think I’ll have another of those? “The Major scarcely entered into this festive spirit. “I shall sleep like a top now,” said Carolus cheerfully as he was about to leave them. “By the way, would you phone me tomorrow when you’ve seen the police? I should just like to feel that’s settled.”
As he was on his way to bed he met Steve Lawson. He now understood those descriptions he had received from Mallister and Jerrison. Lawson was not drunk. Impossible to say that. But equally impossible not to know that he had been drinking.
“Good night,” called Carolus, but he received no reply.
After breakfast next morning he found Christine Derosse. “I owe you an apology,” he said. “I did a thing I hope I don’t often do—jumped to a conclusion. I know now that Sonia Reid didn’t ask a favour of you that night.”
“But she did!” said Christine, smiling. “At least she wanted to. She met me in the hall and asked if she could talk to me about something. I said no. There was quite enough mystery about already without her adding to it with secret confidences. I never liked her, anyway.”
“Do you still resent my trying to investigate this thing, Christine?”
“Not if you’re getting anywhere.” She looked at him squarely, “Are you?”
“I think so. At last. But I’ve had to let the key information go to the police.”
“Bad luck! Why don’t you tell me about it? After all, I can’t very well be on your list of suspects, however much you keep an open mind; I wasn’t here when Lydia Mallister died and hadn’t been for months.”
“You’re not,” said Carolus. Then added with a smile: “It goes against the grain to take anyone into one’s confidence, though. Force of habit, I suppose.”
Christine looked attractive that morning and, in spite of the anxiety she felt, she had not lost her gaiety. “You might try, Carolus.”
Before he realized fully what he was doing, Carolus found himself deep in the story of his researches—what he had learned from his interview with the Grimburns; then his meeting with Mrs Tukes.
“I thought it was something like that,” said Christine of Sonia’s past history. “It’s rather natural for a girl brought up in an orphanage and with that sort of foster-mother to put her own interests first all the time, isn’t it? I meant to have a chat with Mrs Tukes when she came down for the funeral but missed her, afterwards. Go on.”
Of Steve Lawson, Christine said: “Yes. That sounds right. He certainly had money once and he’s pretty desperate for it now.”
When he described his interview with Mrs Cremoine Rose, Christine said: “I could have saved you the trouble of that. We knew her.”
“Not quite,” said Carolus. “She told me there was madness in the family, as well as hereditary heart disease. She was thankful she was ‘untouched by both’. But she maintained firmly that Lydia was very far from mentally normal when she died. What do you say about that?”
“May be true, in a way. She had quite an obsessional hatred of James.”
Carolus went on to give Mr Cracknell’s account of Bishop Grissell’s past.
“We knew there was something of the sort, but a man who claimed to know the circumstances maintained that the bishop was only shielding his sister, who was really to blame.”
At his account of Mr Topham of Conway Towers Preparatory School, Christine laughed outright. “That was absurd of you,” she said. “Surely you could see that the Jerrisons are angels?”
They smiled over Esmée Welton having ‘set her cap’ at the bishop, but Christine said that, according to her aunt, there might be some truth in it. Finally, diffidently and under a particular promise of secrecy, Carolus told Christine of the Gees-Gees and their listening-post.
Christine was interested by his account of Mrs Jerrison’s footsteps and Jerrison’s footmarks, but made no comment. When he told her of Sonia’s visit to the Natterleys she exclaimed at once: “So that’s where she went with her confidence that night! It’s very surprising.”
“Is it?”
“She’d had a row with the Natterleys.”
“I know. But where else could she go?”
“Mrs Gort.”
“She had tried her.”
“I see. Dora Natterley was the last chance. She must have been desperate.”
“She was,” said Carolus and told her about the two sealed envelopes.
Christine thought for a long time, then said: “But do you see no way of clearing this up, Carolus?”
“It may be that, when the police open that envelope, they will have the truth of it.”
“And make an arrest?”
“Perhaps.”
“When?”
“They won’t move in a hurry. We don’t know what facts they’ve already got. But it should be within forty-eight hours.”
“By tomorrow evening?”
“I should think so.”
“Then let me tell you, if they haven’t done anything by then,” Christine spoke with suppressed excitement, “I’m going to step in. I’ve got a plan, Carolus, which can’t fail.”
“I dare say you have, my dear girl, but I don’t think you quite realize the dangers. If I am right in this case—and I’ve got little more than guesswork to support me—we have here the most dangerous of all kinds of murderer, one who is fighting for survival. O
ne who will stop at absolutely nothing. One who can’t stop now. I tell you solemnly, your life wouldn’t be worth a light if you stuck your neck out in the way I guess you are proposing to do.”
“I can look after myself,” said Christine.
“That’s what Sonia Reid thought.”
“But I can, I know what I’m doing.”
“Will you promise me one thing?”
“I doubt it. What?”
“That you’ll tell me before you do anything?
“Christine considered. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll promise you that.”
17
THE weather broke at last and it seemed that winter came almost in a night. When the household of Cat’s Cradle went to bed that evening it was dark and gusty, and on the following morning there was steady rain with a leaden sky. There was something grim and final about this, as though, now that the long freakish spell of fine weather was over, there would be no more sunshine till the spring.
Carolus was called to the phone at eleven o’clock to hear Major Natterley’s voice, elaborately casual, operating from Belstock.
“As it happened, Deene, it was a good thing you mentioned that little matter. The police were most grateful to us.”
“They made no comment about not having heard earlier?”
“They did just remark that it could have been formally reported to the Coroner, but we explained that it had never occurred to us that it could be important.”
“They gave you no idea of the contents of the envelope, of course? “Carolus asked, glad the telephone at Cat’s Cradle was in a small sound-proof compartment.
“None whatever. Naturally we made no inquiry. We had no wish to associate ourselves …”
“This line’s so bad,” said Carolus and put the receiver down.
It was time he went to the police himself. It was his very firm conviction that, when he was in possession of facts which might aid them in their inquiries, it was his duty to reveal these. His theories were his own concern.
This had sometimes led to embarrassment when the C.I.D. man in charge of a case resented being told anything which Carolus might have discovered, but on the other occasions, especially when his friend John Moore was in charge, Carolus had found the police receptive; even, at times, in a cagey way, co-operative.