“I tol’ ’em that, miss, the very first, an’ they did ast a lot about it then. About Wednesday, too; you know Bob an’ me come in an’ put our names to a paper for Miss Pongleton—’er will it was, Bob said, but Mr. Plasher says no. Mr. Basil ’ad bin ’ere to tea with ’er, but ’e’d gone before we came in and brought the leash back. Seems no one took Tuppy out on Thursday, it bein’ so wet, so no one noticed perticler whether it was there or no, but I saw it for certin sure that night when I put Mr. Grange’s umbereller in the stand. The p’lice’ve bin astin’ a lot o’ questions about that Thursday night, an’ I ’ear they’re comin’ agin to-night to ast some more. I’m sure I wish it was all over, an’ I expec’ you do too.”
“What do they want to know about Thursday night?”
Nellie seemed embarrassed. “Well, miss, it wasn’t me as told ’em.” The girl cast anxious glances up and down the corridor, and Betty, thinking uneasily that she ought not to stand gossiping with Nellie, but curious to know what more she had to say, retreated into her room with Nellie following. Betty sat on the edge of her bed, and Nellie, fumbling with her handbag, opening it and snapping it shut again, continued:
“A-course, miss, you know you was the las’ one in on Thursday night. None of the others wasn’t out—not late; an’ the door was left unbolted for you. Well, miss, a-course no one knows but you what happened when you come in that night!”
“Nellie!” The exclamation was so sharply interrogative that Nellie raised her eyes for a moment to meet Betty’s brown ones that gazed at her, puzzled, perhaps a little angry. “What do you mean? Nothing happened. What do you think happened?”
“Well, miss, I didn’t mean no ’arm, but I thought p’r’aps as you ast me about it you’d better know that the p’lice are comin’ to-night to ast about it. Mrs. Bliss was astin’ everyone about who locked up that night—yesterday evenin’ it must’ve bin, when you were out with Mr. Basil. Miss Fain, I think it was, told ’er you went to the pikchers on Thursday night with Mr. Basil an’ ’e saw you ’ome. Oh, miss, that’s all. I don’ know anything—an’ I think I’d better go now.”
“Wait a minute,” Betty commanded severely. “I don’t understand why you think this is important. The police came and questioned us all on Friday night, as you know, and they asked everyone about Thursday night, and seeing the leash, so of course they know I was out late. That’s all there is to it. I didn’t notice the leash, one way or another. I wish I had noticed. Yes, you’d better go now; you’re late.” As Nellie edged away, Betty added more gently, “Don’t worry—it will all come straight.”
Nellie hung on the door-handle with her head inside the room for a moment, to declare earnestly, “I’m sure I ’ope so, too, miss. An’ I ’aven’t said a word, not to a soul, an’ not a word will I say!” With this mysterious declaration she slipped away, leaving Betty to ponder with a puzzled frown over what might be in the girl’s mind.
As a matter of fact, something had happened in the lounge hall of the Frampton on Thursday night when Basil brought Betty home. It was an event of some importance to Betty, but she could not see that it had any possible bearing on the crime, nor could she believe that Nellie, or anyone else beyond Basil and herself, knew of it. Basil had stepped inside the door and had kissed her—spasmodically and with slightly inaccurate aim, for he was nervous, and a little doubtful as to how she would take it. His only previous experience of kissing was of the casual sort which Mamie understood and took as a matter of course, giving him every assistance. Now this experience became useless as he realized that Betty’s reaction to the kiss was going to matter terribly. Betty had done rather more than receive the kiss passively, but, almost immediately, after a quick hug, she had bundled him outside the door, blown him another kiss, and then locked and bolted the door upon him and tiptoed up to bed in a pleasant flutter of excitement.
In her first interview with Inspector Caird on Friday evening Betty had told him that she came in alone on Thursday night, locked and bolted the door, and went straight up to bed, not noticing whether the dog-leash was on the umbrella stand or not. It had not occurred to her that the presence of Basil in the hall for a moment was of any importance, one way or another, and so far as the world in general was concerned, she had come in alone. Now the inspector was apparently going to question her further about that evening. He knew, evidently, that Basil had come up to Hampstead with her that night; Basil himself may have mentioned it, or Mrs. Bliss may have heard of it from the expansive Cissie and passed it on.
The idea in the inspector’s mind, thought Betty, was that Basil took the leash from the hall on that night before the murder. Apart from Betty’s inability to believe that Basil could have connived at the murder beforehand—much less committed it—she was positive that he could not have taken anything from the hall on that romantic occasion. He had only just stepped inside the door. She knew well that his arms were fully occupied. She had pushed him out and locked the door immediately afterwards. But how explain all that to an inspector, even a comparatively human one? Wouldn’t it be safer to stick to her original story—told, not with intent to deceive but because it was the truth, Betty said to herself, so far as inspectors and such outsiders were concerned? If Basil were questioned he was sure to say that he didn’t go inside the door. He would realize that to admit that he did go inside would incriminate him and perhaps bring suspicion upon Betty too.
“Confound it!” Betty muttered. “If only I had had more time to talk to Basil I might be sure about that!” But it must be all right. She would have heard before now if there had been any discrepancy between her story and Basil’s. Had she better telephone to him to make sure? No, that was too risky; he would be at Beverley House and couldn’t answer freely. And if the police found that she had been telephoning to him, that might arouse their suspicions. No, she was sure it was safe to say that he didn’t come in; and really true in spirit, too, if not in fact.
Betty went downstairs to tea, taking with her a new detective story which she had obtained from Mudie’s before the Pongleton affair had linked detective stories with life as Betty knew it. She tried to settle down to read it after tea, but it didn’t sound right. There was a lot of telephoning in the book—that seemed true to life—but all these people were provided with telephones through which they could have confidential conversations with others at any moment without fear of being overheard. What a blissful state of affairs, thought Betty with some annoyance.
She was interrupted by Basil’s hasty call to hand over the pearls to her once more. His interview with her was so startling, and so rapid, that it was only when he was sprinting away again down Church Lane that she realized that she might have asked him what he had said to the police about Thursday night. Too late! She could never catch him up now, and someone was sure to notice her if she dashed out after him. She returned to the sitting-room, where Mr. Slocomb—comfortably settled in the chair to which his right now seemed firmly established—Mrs. Daymer in her draughty seat opposite, and Cissie on the sofa, were engaged in desultory conversation.
“I wonder whether the police will find that other will to-morrow,” mused Mrs. Daymer. She looked across severely at Mr. Slocomb, who was working out a crossword puzzle. “You should be able to think where it might have been put,” she informed him—“your mind being attuned to the solution of problems. But I have often noticed that the working out of abstract formulae is not necessarily conducive to an understanding of human nature.”
Everyone in the Frampton had heard by now of Beryl’s and Gerry’s visit that morning to fetch Tuppy, and of Nellie’s chance remark about witnessing what appeared to be Miss Pongleton’s latest will.
Mr. Slocomb looked up from the dictionary. “I believe that it is not so much a question of understanding human nature as a matter of accident. Miss Pongleton had no system in her habit of concealing things in odd places; it was purely capricious. It is quite probable that someon
e will light upon the hiding-place of this will—if it exists—by the merest chance.”
“That is likely,” agreed Mrs. Daymer coldly. “Chance may, of course, intervene when human perspicuity fails. But if we could simplify our lives and get more closely in touch with nature, we might understand people better, and depend less upon the vagaries of chance. All my best work has been done in a simple cottage in the Cotswolds; the place breathes craftsmanship; a constant reminder of man’s true function— creation, honest workmanship. It is good for the style, keeps it simple.” Mrs. Daymer drew her peacock-hued scarf of handwoven silk higher up on her shoulders and shivered delicately. “But we are degenerate; we are ill-fitted to bear the rigours of life which our forefathers barely noticed. Though I am bound to say that as regards the exclusion of draughts, with all the ingenuity of modern invention, we have not yet reached perfect accomplishment.” She shot a glance of envy at the opposite chair.
Cissie was sprawling on the sofa, waggling her feet. Her theory that this exercise improved the shape of her ankles gave her an excuse for indulging in it conspicuously when she was bored.
“I wish we could hunt for the will,” she suggested. “I suppose Pongle’s room is still locked up? It would give us something to do and it would be too thrilling if we found it and it turned out that Pongle had left her money to someone quite different.”
“There’s no reason to suppose that she ever thought of leaving it to anyone except Basil or Beryl,” Betty reminded her. “And then she often made wills and tore them up, I’ve heard, so this one that Nellie witnessed on Wednesday may not be in existence now.”
“As between Basil Pongleton and his cousin, Miss Sanders, I believe it will make no difference as to which of them ultimately inherits the money,” announced Mrs. Daymer incautiously. She wanted the others to listen to her, and had been disappointed when craftsmanship and draughts had failed to draw any response.
“What do you mean?” asked Cissie, bringing her feet down on to the floor, and thereby levering herself into a more upright position. “You can’t mean—Basil and Beryl—but she’s engaged to Gerry—whatever?”
“I mean,” said Mrs. Daymer deliberately, “that Miss Sanders is quite well off, whereas Mr. Basil Pongleton is not exactly affluent, and has not so far met with much success—financially—in his authorship; perhaps he has not yet found his own line. Miss Sanders is of a generous disposition—I have observed that—and I do not think she would allow her cousin to be deprived, through some caprice of their aunt’s, of money which everyone believes to have been intended for him.”
“I don’t see that all that amounts to much,” said Cissie ungraciously. “Beryl may be generous, but who would give up money once they’d got it? Even if you’re well off you can’t have too much.”
“And perhaps Basil wouldn’t take it,” said Betty, underestimating Basil’s conviction of his genuine right to the money.
“But the Wednesday will, if discovered, may have some quite different content,” remarked Mrs. Daymer with great significance.
“D’you think she really left it all to someone quite different and they’ve murdered her?” enquired Cissie.
“There’s no knowing,” declared Mrs. Daymer. “But you may feel assured that if the Wednesday will”—she liked that phrase—“merely names Miss Sanders, instead of Mr. Basil Pongleton, as legatee, it will make no real difference in the ultimate destination of the money.”
Mrs. Bliss looked in. “Miss Watson, you won’t be going out any more to-day, I suppose? And you too, Miss Fain?”
Betty shook her head.
“We’ll stay put,” Cissie assured Mrs. Bliss. “What’s up?”
“The police inspector wishes to see you both; he’ll be here any time now; he thought you might be able to clear up some little points. Dear, dear! They don’t seem able to fit things together. It’s all very confusing, I’m sure. About some letter Miss Pongleton wrote; I thought you might have posted it, Miss Fain. She’d sit up writing letters at night—the electricity she must have used! But we mustn’t grudge it her now, poor lady! I know she often gave them to you to post in the morning.”
Cissie’s mouth fell open and her tongue shot out a little way. It was a grimace which she often made when suddenly reminded of something about which her conscience was not easy. It had led to her abrupt dismissal from her first job, for insolence, but even after that she had not cured herself of it. Mrs. Bliss did not notice this sign of confusion because she had come into the room and was shaking up a cushion here, pulling a curtain straight there, and generally “putting things to rights”.
“I declare I miss that little animal,” she murmured. “He may have been a nuisance, but the house doesn’t seem the same without him. Poor little fellow! I hope he has a kind home. The Yorkshire climate is very severe, and they say dogs feel a change the same as humans. They know a lot, and we ought to be careful how we treat them.”
“Do you feel a draught, Mrs. Daymer?” asked Mr. Slocomb suddenly. “A window?”
“No, no!” declared Mrs. Daymer, blandly wagging her head from side to side. “I am a great believer in the beneficial effects of fresh air.”
Mrs. Bliss had put all the furnishing accessories in order and sailed away.
“What’s up, Cissie?” Betty enquired. “Did you forget to post a letter?”
“Well, I did,” Cissie admitted. “But I posted it later. Pongle gave me a letter to Basil to post on Thursday morning. I expect she wrote it late on Wednesday night, as Blissie said. She wouldn’t give it to you to post, you know, because, although you were more certain to do it, Pongle seemed to think you might put a spell on it so that it would say samething different by the time it got to Basil. Anyhow, I forgot it and I found it in my bag when I got home that evening, and I actually went out again and posted it, before I’d seen Pongle, so that I could tell her without blushing that it had been done.”
“Cheer up!” Betty admonished her. “They won’t arrest you for having forgotten to post a letter. Was that the only one? It doesn’t sound as if it had anything to do with the case.”
“I don’t think I posted another one. I hadn’t thought any more about that one till just now.”
“It’s not such an unusual event, after all,” said Betty rather unkindly. “You’ve forgotten to post lots of letters before this. Sure there’s not another one still in your bag?”
Betty was trying to stifle her own anxiety by building up suggestions about other letters and the unimportance of this one. A letter from his aunt which would reach Basil on Friday morning! She couldn’t see the exact significance of it, but it certainly seemed likely that it had something to do with his strange behaviour on that dreadful day.
“Of course!” exclaimed Cissie, loudly and triumphantly.
The others all stared at her.
“Pongle was annoyed with Basil on Wednesday for some reason—he came to tea with her and upset her somehow. She made another will on the spot—the one Nellie witnessed—and wrote to tell Basil. That’s just what she would do: ‘Naughty boy, you shan’t have my money!’ sort of thing. I thought there was a spiteful look in her eye when she gave me that letter. So there is another will—and perhaps Basil knows where it is! Too romantic!”
“In whose favour, I wonder?” enquired Mrs. Daymer solemnly.
“I’m sick of all this talk about wills,” Betty declared. “Can’t we think of something else? How is your new book progressing, Mrs. Daymer?”
“The atmosphere during the last few days has not been conducive to work, but it goes pretty well. By the way, I have to take a journey to the Midlands to-morrow; a matter of local colour. I am rather particular about local colour. People’s surroundings influence their thoughts more than you would believe, and I want to get a fresh impression of a Midlands manufacturing town. That is the sort of place in which a tendency to crime is born.”
&
nbsp; “Oh, do you think Mr. Blend did the murder? He used to have a shop in Rugby—or was it Birmingham?” said Cissie.
“In that district, I believe,” agreed Mrs. Daymer. “But not all the inhabitants of a manufacturing town are susceptible to its debasing influence. Yet how much better we should all be if we breathed unpolluted air and saw branches against the blue sky every morning.”
“That would be rather a question of weather, I should think,” said Betty with extreme politeness of manner which concealed weariness and exasperation.
At that moment Mrs. Bliss came back to announce that the inspector was here to see Miss Fain. Cissie heaved herself off the sofa with a sigh.
“I suppose I must confess?”
“Oh yes,” said Betty, wishing she could give some other advice. “Get the crime off your chest and it will soon be over.”
“From my own experience of being questioned by the police in this case,” announced Mr. Slocomb cautiously, “I should say that they are better pleased if you answer their questions briefly and to the point, without volunteering any conjectures which may seem to you to be of value but to which they do not attach any special significance.”
“Don’t tell them more than I must, you mean?” Cissie, who had stood on one leg by the door to listen to Mr. Slocomb’s advice, swung out.
Betty was glad Mr. Slocomb had given that advice, with his usual fondness for offering wise counsel. Certainly there was no need to put unnecessarily incriminating ideas about the subject of that letter into the inspector’s head. Her own turn would come next, she supposed. She clasped her handbag firmly. Rather a joke to go and answer the inspector’s questions demurely, with those pearls in her bag under his very nose!
Cissie’s interview was short. She sank on to the sofa again with a sigh. “Not so bad! Now he wants you.” Betty walked out resolutely, saying to herself over and over again: “Basil did not come inside the door.”
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