‘How did he know Inigo was here?’
‘I told him.’
‘You told him. After I’d stressed the point that he must not be excited in any way. With your interfering nature you couldn’t resist it, I suppose. Taking it upon yourself to massage his neck too. I didn’t guess it was you. I thought Ledgrove had left that bottle there. If Mr Best had not brought up the subject, I might never have known. Why, you practically caused his death.’
Dylis waved aside this tirade. ‘He was in pain,’ she said. ‘It was the least I could do, and I didn’t see any harm in mentioning Inigo. They were bound to see each other later in the day, or some time.’ She paused, thinking about that. Since Inigo had taken that journey specially to see his uncle, he would hardly have gone away without doing so. Theresa knew that, too. If there were anything she did not wish Inigo to hear from his uncle, the latter had died at a most convenient time. ‘You’ve talked a lot about rights,’ she went on. ‘What about Inigo’s right to see his uncle, and Mr Brown’s right to see him? You didn’t hesitate to do a little interfering yourself, there.’
‘I knew what was best for my husband in his weak condition. I was his nurse. I should know. And the doctor said he was not to have visitors.’
‘Yet you sent a letter asking Inigo to come.’
‘I sent it? I did nothing of the kind. I knew nothing about it until …’
They both saw her mistake at the same time. Dylis, who had been leaning back with half-closed eyes, but watching Theresa none the less closely, observed the fleeting look of consternation that crossed her face. Dylis did not give her time to recuperate. She cut in:
‘Until you went through Inigo’s pockets and found the letter his uncle wrote to him in London. I can’t remember the exact wording, but it finished up something like, “Don’t mention it to my wife, I want your visit to be a surprise to her.”’
Theresa was on her feet, glaring down at Dylis with undisguised fury.
‘You’ve no right to say such things,’ she raved. ‘How dare you sit there, insulting me, your hostess? First you accuse my husband’s valet of neglecting his master, then you accuse me of intrigue and … worse. It’s the kind of low, crawling, unspeakable thing you would do yourself, going through a man’s pockets. How do you know what was in that letter, unless you’ve been prying about in other people’s rooms, which seems to be a habit of yours?’
‘You’re not very consistent,’ Dylis pointed out, with composure. ‘If you wanted me to believe you knew nothing about that letter, you shouldn’t have made it so obvious that you did. And now you ask how I knew about it. Well, Inigo gave it to me to read.’
‘Oh, he did? And may I ask why he should take you into his confidence? What is there between you two, a conspiracy?’
‘You’re being melodramatic again,’ Dylis said. ‘Inigo knew someone had been through his things, because they were all put back in the wrong places, including that letter. Showing it to me was just incidental when he was telling me about it.’
‘And how do you know he didn’t show it to me?’
‘Because he said he didn’t, as his uncle asked him not to. And you wouldn’t have got so bothered about it, if he had.’
‘You think you’re being very clever, don’t you? Well, there’s such a thing as being too clever, my dear.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Was your husband too clever, by any chance?’
Theresa shot her a glance full of venom, and began to move nervously about the room. She said suddenly:
‘Suppose I did happen to see that letter? I’ve a right to know what’s going on in my own house, haven’t I?’
‘Be damned to you and your house!’ Dylis exclaimed, losing her temper. ‘All I want is to get out of the wretched place.’
‘You were glad enough to take shelter here.’
‘And I’ll be equally glad to take shelter somewhere else, where people aren’t dying and disappearing and messing about with cars and creeping into each other’s rooms. Who started this conversation, anyway? I didn’t and I’ve no particular wish to go on with it.’
She got up from her chair, and would have left then, had not Theresa caught her arm, saying with a touch of hysteria in her voice:
‘You can’t go before you’ve told me what my husband said to you.’
‘Can’t I?’ Dylis looked down at the little hands clinging to her arm, brushed them aside, and pushed Theresa down into the chair she had vacated. ‘It would take more than you to stop me.’
Theresa looked up at her, made an effort to rise, and thought better of it. She said:
‘But I’ve a right to know.’
‘If you say that again I’ll slap you,’ Dylis threatened. ‘What difference does it make what he said or didn’t say? If he was as ill as he was supposed to be, someone should have been with him. You say you were sleeping, and left Ledgrove in charge of him. Personally, I don’t believe a word of it. Why did Mr Brown have a walking stick to thump on the floor with, if someone was accustomed to sit with him all the time? You’re not all deaf, are you? I asked him if he wanted to see you, and he said no. I couldn’t do more. I’ll tell them what he said at the inquest, if anyone wants to know.’
‘There won’t be an inquest.’ Theresa was slowly regaining her lost dignity. ‘My husband died a perfectly natural death.’
‘If you’re so sure of that, why the anxiety over his last words?’
‘He was my husband. I devoted my life to making him as happy as I could. I’ve …’
‘All right, you said it before. You’ve the right to know. Well, here it is, for what it’s worth.’ Dylis lighted a cigarette and leaned against the mantel. She was, she realised, on delicate ground. If Theresa really had nothing to do with her husband’s death, her own veiled accusations were most unseemly. At the same time, Theresa had more or less admitted that she was not above prying into people’s pockets. But that did not necessarily imply that she was also capable of murder. Theresa sat very still in her chair, the anger gone from her face, leaving it pale and earnest in expression. Uncomfortably aware of growing doubt, Dylis returned to her narrative where she had left it, and continued up to the time of three-thirty of that fatal morning, when she had come back to her own room.
There followed a silence, during which the two women scrutinised each other with minute care. Theresa drew a deep breath at length, and asked:
‘Is that all? Are you sure that was all he said?’
Dylis shrugged. ‘Pretty well. Except that he finished by asking me what I thought of you.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said I thought you were very beautiful, and he said, “Is she?” And then he fell asleep.’
A faint smile curved Theresa’s mouth. ‘So his last words were of me. I’m glad of that, and thank you for telling me.’
But Dylis was not listening to this sad little speech. She was calling herself several kinds of an idiot for having bungled the situation. Theresa had been expecting her to say something entirely different. But what? A little bluff might help matters along. If Theresa were the innocent soul she made out, it could do no harm, and if not … Dylis said:
‘That’s all, as far as I can remember at the moment. But suppose, later, I were to remember something else your husband said, something he would have told Inigo, if he hadn’t died?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t talk in riddles,’ Theresa said irritably, but she was on guard again. Dylis continued:
‘There was something, wasn’t there? Something you didn’t want Inigo to know?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I shall certainly speak to him about your extraordinary behaviour.’
She glanced at her small wristlet watch and made a movement to rise, but Dylis leaned over and pushed her back into the chair again. She found that pushing Theresa into chairs was a stimulating experience.
‘Don’t waste your time,’ she said. ‘It’s no good asking him. If you’ve any common sense you’ll know that had I
told him, he wouldn’t be taking it so calmly. But then you don’t know him very well, do you? He’s easy-going up to a point, but beyond that he gets mad.’
‘What is this “something” you keep talking about?’ Theresa almost shouted, reaching the end of her control.
‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that your husband might have given me a message for Inigo, because he knew he was probably going to die?’
‘How could he know? He wasn’t so very ill.’
‘You admit that now? Earlier you said he was.’
‘I didn’t say anything of the kind. I said … Oh, you’re impossible.’ She sat staring into the fire for a while, and gradually a calm settled down over her features. She looked like someone who had been through a bad time, and who realises with relief that things are not beyond all hope. She had evidently come to a decision.
‘My husband died a natural death,’ she repeated. ‘And he could not have known he was going to die. All the same, since you and Inigo have seen fit to keep this to yourselves for so long, I should be glad if you’d go on doing so. I shouldn’t like Ledgrove to be censured for negligence.’
‘That’s hardly likely, is it?’
‘And why not?’
‘He’s dead, I imagine,’ Dylis remarked, and watched for the effect that might have, if any. It failed to register. Theresa said:
‘I hope not, poor man. I also hope you won’t be too disappointed if he turns up safe and sound. It seems to me you’ve a flair for melodrama yourself. Have you anything else to say to me? Because if not, I should like to get a little air. This room is stifling.’
‘Go ahead,’ Dylis invited her. ‘I don’t find talking to you particularly amusing.’
With a vague feeling of frustration, she watched Theresa gather up her coat and walk across to the door communicating with the dining-room, and fling it back. She had certainly not made much headway. Well, what did it signify? If Theresa had not started anything, she had been prepared to let the whole matter slide.
Theresa took a few steps into the other room, halted, and emitted a scream, the shrillness of which reverberated through Dylis like an electric shock. For a moment she stood petrified by the mantelpiece, her mind unable to impel her body to action. But from the darkness of the other room came further screams, madly hysterical, redolent of fear. Kicking aside the footstool that obstructed her way, Dylis moved quickly into the dining-room, and caught Theresa by the shoulders, where she stood leaning against the table.
‘For the love of heaven, what’s the matter?’ she demanded.
But Theresa could not or would not tell her. She was sobbing now, and in between her sobs she went on screaming.
Chapter XIV
With Theresa clinging to her like a lost child, there was not much Dylis could do. So she stood in the semi-darkness and waited for whatever came next. Fortunately, it was not long before relief arrived in the shape of Mr Raddle, who came quietly in through the drawing-room, a lighted candle in his hand, and asked:
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘No,’ Dylis said, with some bitterness. ‘Nothing at all. We’re just playing Postman’s Knock.’
She did not mean to hurt the man’s feelings, but to be clutched in a fervent embrace by the hysterical Theresa was too much for her equanimity. By the light of Mr Raddle’s candle, she could see now that the dining-room was empty, save for themselves. What she had expected to see she hardly knew, but Theresa’s screams had conjured up something horrible to the mind. The dining-room door burst open then, and Mr Carpenter appeared, rubbing a hand over his eyes, and demanding:
‘What the hell’s going on? I never heard such a God-damned noise.’
Theresa chose that moment to abandon her frenzied hold upon Dylis, and to cast herself upon the ground, where she proceeded to bang the carpeted floor with her fists, and to scream even louder.
‘I’ll get her a glass of water,’ Mr Raddle said.
‘Make it a jug,’ Dylis advised him. ‘A large one.’
‘Indeed I will. The more water absorbed into the body, the better the constitution.’ He retreated, and Mr Carpenter said, moving to the sideboard:
‘Brandy.’
By the unsteadiness of his gait and the careful economy of his speech, his occupation for the past few hours could be readily guessed. Nevertheless, his suggestion was not unsound.
‘Theresa!’ Dylis shouted, bending down and making an effort to raise her from the ground. ‘What’s got into you?’
She was somewhat put out by this unexpected climax to their conversation. She knew that Theresa had been on edge, but up to the time of opening the communicating door, she had apparently regained her composure. Perhaps it was just a natural reaction to nervous excitement. Whatever it was, she declined to be raised from her prostrate position, she declined to stop screaming. Mr Carpenter, a glass of brandy in his hand, tottered across the room and dropped down on one knee beside her.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Do you good.’
She reached out a clenched fist, knocked it from his hand, and pressed her face more firmly into the carpet. Between wrath and sorrow, Mr Carpenter surveyed the fallen glass with its contents spilled across the floor. He swore softly but with feeling. Dylis, who had temporarily given up trying to find a solution and was leaning against the table, looked up with relief as Inigo, with Charlie Best following, came charging in through the french windows. Inigo held a hurricane lamp above his head, and the rays falling upon his dishevelled hair gave him an appearance of unreality.
‘Dylis!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you all right? Whatever’s happened?’
He dashed round the table and put an arm about her, saw Theresa, and was about to go to her aid, but Charlie was before him. Without much effort, he lifted her in his arms and carried her into the drawing-room, where he laid her on the couch, just as Mr Raddle entered with a glass jug filled with water.
‘Give me that,’ Dylis said, took it from him and went to where Theresa lay, sobbing and still letting out spasmodic screams. Dylis was about to pour it over that young lady’s tear-stained but still lovely face, when the latter forestalled her by sitting upright, and saying in a choking voice:
‘I’m … I’m all right now. Please don’t bother. It was silly of me.’
She gave a quick, enveloping glance at the faces crowding round her, Inigo, Charlie, Mr Raddle and Dylis, and Mr Ashley, who had unobtrusively joined them. Mr Carpenter, who had remained in the dining-room long enough to close the french windows and to help himself to the despised brandy, now came forward with a further glass of that ancient means of revival, and said:
‘Chuck this down her throat. Do her good.’
Best took it from him and handed it to Theresa, who accepted it with a grateful smile.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and sipped a little. Mr Carpenter remarked:
‘Ruddy lot of nonsense,’ and retired to his favourite chair by the fire.
‘But what happened?’ Inigo asked. ‘Charlie and I heard you screaming as far away as the garage. We rushed up thinking someone was being murdered, at least.’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all, really. Dylis and I had been talking, and I went into the dining-room to open the window. It was dark in there, and as I flung back the door, I saw … a man.’
Dylis raised an eyebrow. She could have pointed out that there were four men bending over Theresa at the moment, and none of them seemed to be causing her any alarm. She refrained. The heads of the four men in question raised themselves an inch or so and they stared enquiringly into each other’s faces. Best asked:
‘Who was it? And what was he doing?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see him clearly. And he wasn’t doing anything. That’s what frightened me. He was just standing by the door, the other door that opens on to the passage. Oh, I know it was silly of me, but my nerves are so strung up …’ She suppressed a sob, and took another sip of brandy. Charlie Best patted her hand. Inigo said:
‘Well, who the d
evil was it? Charlie and I were out in the garage. Where were you, Mr Raddle?’
‘I, sir,’ that gentleman said with dignity, ‘was with Mr Howe in his room. We heard screams of a violent and uncontrolled nature, and Mr Howe requested me to come down and ascertain their cause. On arriving …’
‘All right. What about you, Mr Carpenter?’
The latter said, without even turning round:
‘In bed.’
‘With all your clothes on?’
‘With all my clothes on. Except my shoes. D’you mind?’
‘I was having a wash,’ Ashley volunteered. ‘What’s happened to the servants, the butler fellow and the other one?’
‘They were out in the garage,’ Inigo said. ‘They heard Theresa screaming, too. Vauxhall said … well, never mind what he said, but I thought they were following Charlie and me.’
‘I expect they didn’t want to leave the car,’ Theresa said, and gave him a look full of meaning. Dylis, who had been thoughtfully surveying the circle of faces, asked,
‘What about the two vanmen? They’re the only ones not accounted for.’
‘They’re over by the barn,’ Inigo explained. ‘They probably wouldn’t have heard anything, at that distance. Feel any better, Theresa?’
‘Much better, thank you. But I’m a little cold. Would someone get my coat?’
Charlie Best fetched it from the dining-room, where it lay upon the floor, and wrapped it about her shoulders. She finished the brandy, and sat huddled up there, looking forlorn and pale. Dylis, who had regretfully abandoned the water jug, walked over to the fire and warmed her chilled hands. She was feeling sceptical towards the whole episode. Theresa’s screams had sounded genuine enough, but were out of all proportion to the incident that had caused them. She may have seen someone standing by the door, but Dylis doubted it. A shadow, seen in a light bad, could look quite substantial to the imaginative. And suppose she had seen someone? Who was there in that house, the sight of whom could send her into hysterics? Having caught her out in one form of deception, it was difficult to put much credence in anything she said.
Another Little Christmas Murder Page 17