But no – she wasn’t quite ordinary, either. She was behaving in too extraordinary a way. For he could see, now, what that left index finger was doing. It was ticking things off. It was ticking off all those rubbishing material possessions, no one among which quite concealed any other.
The pathological old miser – for that, of course, was what she was – advanced steadily towards Appleby. She looked at him, and frowned. He ought not to have been there to be counted. She stopped, and spoke sharply.
“Young man,” she said, “are you Richardson’s clerk?”
It certainly wasn’t that she was purblind. A glance from her eyes told you that she saw everything. So Appleby felt rejuvenated. Whether he was a young man was, after all, a relative matter. On the other hand, he certainly wasn’t Richardson’s clerk. So he had better say so.
“No,” he replied. “My name is Appleby, and I have come to call on your niece. You must forgive me for walking in. I seemed to have some difficulty with the bell at the front door.”
Mrs Kipper – as she must be presumed to be – ignored this. She had come to a halt for a moment, but now she walked on – crossing her elegant hall and entering the first of the rooms on its farther side. At the same time, she signed to Appleby to accompany her. She gave the impression of being prepared to listen to him, provided this did not distract her from the more important task of checking over her property. This still took place entirely on her left hand. No doubt there was going to be a return journey.
“I asked” – Mrs Kipper said – “because Richardson is in the house now. I heard his voice as he went upstairs. He has no business here. I have a good mind to turn him out of the place.”
“Isn’t Mr Richardson your solicitor?” Appleby asked this very much at a venture.
“Certainly not. My solicitor is Mr Wiggins of Gray’s Inn. I went up to see him only a few days ago. Richardson is a local man, who did business for my late brother-in-law, Joseph Kipper. Most mistakenly and unnecessarily, Joseph left a sum of money in trust for the education of my niece. Richardson administered it. But that is all over. The money has been spent and the trust discharged. The girl may send for him as she pleases. But he hasn’t a penny left to give her, all the same. Unless out of his own pocket.”
“Your niece Astarte?”
Mrs Kipper had now nearly reached the far end of the room. And she took time off the more serious business of her peregrination to look sharply at Appleby.
“Astarte? Stuff and nonsense! My niece’s name is plain Jane.”
“Plain Jane, I am told, is one of the loveliest girls in England.” It was again in an experimental spirit that Appleby offered this. What it produced from Mrs Kipper was a cackle of highly disagreeable laughter.
“Lovely? All the more reason why she should marry Charles Onions. They will cancel each other out, so far as looks go. Mr Onions is a revoltingly ugly man.”
“I see.” And indeed Appleby was beginning to see what might be called the archetypal simplicity of the situation at Veere House. “Your niece has no wish to marry this revoltingly ugly man. But she is penniless. And he is the match that you design for her.”
“You express it very clearly,” Mrs Kipper said. And she walked on. “The announcement,” she said presently, “would look well in The Times – supposing one were to waste money in that way. Miss J Kipper and Mr C Onions. The wedding photograph, too, would be a joy – supposing one were going to have such a thing.”
This time Appleby was silent. Mrs Kipper was not merely disagreeable. She was malignant. And now she had turned and begun moving back the way she had come. If this was a fairy story, Appleby told himself, Mrs Kipper sustained a couple of roles at once. She was both witch and dragon – and the hoard which the dragon guarded was this dismal accumulation of near-lumber which she had brought together on the ground floor of her house. Probably many of the upper rooms were empty – the mad old creature having concentrated everything down here, the better to keep her eye on it. That would explain the mixture of stuff from bedrooms and drawing-rooms, cloakrooms and libraries. And amid it all – he told himself – there ought to be one supremely interesting object.
“Hasn’t your niece ever been prompted to leave home?” Appleby asked. “Isn’t she anxious to earn her own living?”
“Her education – thanks to the folly of my brother-in-law – was of the extremely expensive sort that equips a young woman to do nothing. Of course, she might become a shop girl. And a shop girl she will become, if she doesn’t marry Mr Onions.”
It was at this moment that Appleby saw the Rembrandt. There was the Old Man – decayed, majestic, translucent, incredible – hanging between an insipid mezzotint and an oblong of chocolate-coated canvas once representing, it might be, a forest scene in the Flemish taste. And for a second Mrs Kipper’s eye was resting on it too. But only for a second. The Old Man and his immediate neighbours existed for her, one could see, equally and merely as objects in a compulsive ritual of enumeration.
“I mustn’t detain you,” Appleby said. It was surprising, he reflected, that this dreadful old person had been willing to suffer him in the way she had. He had better make a further move before her mood altered and she drove him from the house. “If you will be good enough to tell me where I may find Miss Kipper–”
“Upstairs,” Mrs Kipper said indifferently. “You can’t go wrong.”
Without a glance, she tapped her way on into the next room.
15
A murmur of voices guided Appleby when he reached the first-floor landing. Standing on no ceremony, he opened a door and walked through it.
He was in the presence – he saw at once – of a council of war. Three people sat round a table. At the head of it was an elderly man of legal appearance. He must be Mr Richardson. On his left sat Jimmy Heffer. On his right sat the girl to whom an ironic fate had given the beauty of a goddess and the name of Jane Kipper. Appleby had a second in which to contemplate her with a certain amount of awe before he was addressed by Heffer. The young man had sprung to his feet.
“How dare you follow me here!” he said. “How dare you break into this house!”
“Sit down,” Appleby said coldly. “And don’t waste time talking nonsense.” He turned to the young woman. “My name is Appleby. It has probably cropped up in Mr Heffer’s conversation. I see that you have at least had the good sense to call in legal advice. I understand this gentleman to be your solicitor, Mr Richardson?”
“Yes.” The Botticelli mask was turned gravely on Appleby. “I sent for him as soon as Jimmy rang up. Jimmy thought I had killed somebody.”
“I really don’t think that we can have this.” Richardson had stood up and was looking at Appleby with severity. “Your appearance in this way, Sir John, is entirely irregular.”
“No doubt it is, sir. All the better, perhaps, for your clients.”
“Mr Heffer is in no sense my client. Until I entered this room half an hour ago I had never set eyes on him. It is Miss Kipper whose interests I represent. I have stood in a professional relationship to her for many years.”
“So I understand. But it appears that she and Mr Heffer have got rather mixed up. They have involved themselves in what might be given the appearance of a criminal conspiracy. I don’t doubt that you have learnt that much by this time.”
Richardson was silent for a moment. He appeared to be weighing with some care the precise form of words which Appleby had used. Then he relaxed slightly.
“Shall we all sit down?” he said. “We can take it that we know what Sir John is referring to. But I must say at once” – and he turned again to Appleby – “that I can continue this informal discussion only if it is agreed that my client was in no way involved in the death of Sir Gabriel Gulliver. Mr Heffer, it appears, lost his head – conceivably not without your assistance, Sir John – and was disposed to admit what
can only be called a morbid and absurd suspicion.”
“Mr Heffer, sir, has built up romantic notions of your client, and he has perhaps been inclined to impute to her a degree of ruthlessness which, it is to be hoped, is entirely foreign to her. Although ruthlessness of a sort she certainly has. I don’t think that she shot Gulliver this morning. But I’d be glad to hear of a little more positive evidence in the matter than I possess at present.”
Richardson nodded.
“As it happens, it exists. Miss Kipper leads a lonely life in this house. She might have difficulty in bringing proof of her whereabouts at one time or another. But, this morning, there were a couple of workmen about the place. Fortunately, she several times conversed with them.”
“I accept that.” Appleby turned to Heffer. “The nightmare is over, isn’t it?” he asked. “You no longer have to think of fighting for your life – and this lady’s?”
“Yes. Of course, I knew Jane couldn’t have done it, really. But, after the affair last night–”
“No doubt.” Appleby interrupted rather brusquely. “And now, we can sort things out a little – factually, if not morally. For I am bound to say, Heffer, that in point of professional trust you have let yourself down badly. Of course, it may be maintained” – and Appleby glanced grimly at the extravagant beauty of Miss Kipper – “that the woman tempted you.”
“I can’t admit anything of that sort.” Richardson struck in sharply. “I cannot admit that Miss Kipper either did, or intended to do, or procure, anything of a criminal nature. There are problems of inheritance in her family – including problems of the rights of ownership in various effects in this house – which have never been satisfactorily resolved. One obstacle has been the disposition of her aunt, Mrs Kipper, whom you may have met. It has been my own policy to see what time would do. Mrs Kipper has for long been very eccentric. I happen to know that she visits her own solicitor monthly for the purpose of altering her will. And so forth. It has been in my mind that a long history of such capricious conduct might very usefully be allowed to build itself up – usefully from the point of view of my client, Miss Kipper, should litigation eventually be necessary.”
“I understand the force of considerations of that kind, Mr Richardson. And I take it you were not aware that there is a painting of very great value in this house?”
“Certainly I was not aware of it. Nor was Miss Kipper – until a certain recent occasion which we both, I think, have in mind.”
“It makes a difference, wouldn’t you say? Relatives may disagree about the ownership of a piano, or make off with a dinner service and argue about it afterwards. But when it comes to a proposal to–”
“Quite so.” Richardson was looking wary again.
“But I must say, Sir John, that I have renewed misgivings about the propriety of this discussion. I think I must advise Miss Kipper – and Mr Heffer, too, for that matter – not to answer questions at this stage.”
“Questions?” Appleby shook his head. “My dear sir, I don’t intend to ask any. I merely propose – for the sake of clarifying my own mind and yours – to embark on what may be called a brief narrative. I may say that there is only one point in this affair about which I am still seriously in the dark. It will emerge presently, and perhaps I shall get some light on it. May I begin?”
There was a moment’s silence. Then – very properly – it was the goddess who spoke.
“Please begin,” Jane Kipper said.
“Miss Kipper,” Appleby said, “has for long lived with her aunt in this house in what may be termed a depressed situation. She has received an expensive, but not particularly useful, education. But the money has run out; she is dependent on her miserly relation; her solicitor can only advise patience. It is all very trying and vexatious – particularly as Miss Kipper is not unattractive, and ought therefore, by the law of nature, to be having a good time.”
Appleby paused on this. He knew, that these young people were going to be let off; he knew that he was himself going to conspire to this end; he didn’t see that he need pull his punches.
“Miss Kipper’s expensive education has run to the history of art. This hasn’t, perhaps, put her quite in the connoisseurs’ class – but it has prompted her, one day, to pause before a certain painting on her aunt’s wall. It is a painting uncommonly like the Rembrandts she has seen when being conducted with her fellow pupils round the best galleries. She forms a plan.”
“I just wanted to find out,” Jane Kipper said. “That was how it started, you see.”
“Quite so.” She was, Appleby reflected, an entirely commonplace girl. In ten years’ time, Jimmy Heffer would have become aware that his wife was an entirely commonplace woman. But he was himself an entirely commonplace man. Only accident had thrust them into their present uncommon situation. One day there would be boy Heffers trudging through Eton and King’s, girl Heffers trudging through the best picture galleries. So be it – Appleby said to himself. Let them out of this silly jam. Let it all go on.
“Miss Kipper,” Appleby said, “forms a design. There is, indeed, one impediment to it. Her aunt keeps an extraordinarily sharp eye upon all her possessions. Mrs Kipper’s waking life, in fact, may be described as a sort of sentry-go. Fortunately, however, she does – once a month, or thereabouts – go off the job. Last Friday – a week ago today – she goes up to London to see her solicitor, Mr Wiggins of Gray’s Inn. That would be right?”
Jane Kipper gave a grave assent.
“So Miss Kipper goes up to London too – with this exciting and problematical painting under her arm. She learns that it is of great value. But she learns this in circumstances of unexpected embarrassment – particularly considering that she has taken the precaution of writing down a false name and address. She learns it in the presence of a young man who is, in fact, known to her. I don’t know how this comes about, but the point is not very material.”
“My sister and Jane were at the same school,” Heffer said. “I recognized her at once, and she recognized me. Since I knew her name, I was able to trace her.”
“Heffer,” Appleby continued impassively, “lost no time in contacting Miss Kipper. The lady had, as we have noticed, this measure of good looks. And she controlled, even if she did not own, an artistic work of hitherto unsuspected value. I think it conceivable that Miss Kipper somewhat dramatized her situation – and that Mrs Kipper perhaps put in an appearance well-calculated to confirm Heffer in the view that here was a helpless orphan, defrauded of her just rights by an aunt who was little better than an ogre. Be that as it may, it was now Heffer’s turn to form a design. He proposed to obtain a replica of the Rembrandt, good enough to pass the daily scrutiny of Mrs Kipper to her dying day, and to sell the original for Miss Kipper’s benefit. Mrs Kipper had no interest in the arts, and there was no possibility of the fact of such a transaction coming to her notice. The only serious snag was that Heffer’s superior, Sir Gabriel Gulliver, was now aware of the existence of the painting. Heffer and Miss Kipper discussed this. Could he be brought into the plot? Heffer, who knew him very well, did not for a moment believe that he could. Miss Kipper, who considered herself to be a great judge of character, thought otherwise. She believed that she had discerned a certain lack of solidity in Sir Gabriel, which might be played upon. It was thus that, when this morning’s fatality took place, Heffer was not free from the appalled sense that Miss Kipper might have tackled Sir Gabriel, discovered her mistake, and killed him to prevent his disclosing the conspiracy. This supposed action of Miss Kipper’s was, indeed, a thing very unlikely in the light of last night’s events – to which I shall presently come. But Heffer has had a bad morning, all the same.”
“It can’t be said that you helped,” Heffer said.
“I now return” – Appleby continued, unheeding – “to Heffer’s design. He knew – or took means to discover – that a man called Trechmann
was in a position to have a replica of the Rembrandt made under conditions of secrecy. He entered into negotiations with him. But Mrs Kipper was again a difficulty. The Rembrandt must always be in its accustomed place by day. The only possible arrangement, then, was that Miss Kipper should bring it to Trechmann’s shop by night – doing so a sufficient number of times to enable an identical canvas to be painted. And that brings us to six p.m. yesterday evening. At that hour Heffer stepped into Trechmann’s shop to confirm the arrangement. As it happened, he stepped straight into another and larger conspiracy – or rather into the fatal consequence of such another conspiracy. He found Trechmann shot dead. It was a great shock to him.”
Appleby paused with mild irony on this. Heffer made as if to say something, and then thought better of it.
“And there was an additional awkwardness – as there is apt to be in such amateur attempts at criminal practice. From within seconds of Trechmann’s being shot, Heffer was under the observation of the police. He thus had no means of secretly communicating with Miss Kipper and warning her not to turn up with the painting later that night as planned. In the circumstances, he behaved with a certain amount of resource – staging a sort of sit-down strike which enabled him to be on the spot still when Miss Kipper arrived. He gave a warning shout. And Miss Kipper – wearing, I think, the same slacks in which we see her now – bolted, picture and all. This morning seems to have found Heffer somewhat irresolute. He went back to work. He couldn’t quite decide what it was safe to do. And so he was overtaken again by events – this time the shooting of Sir Gabriel Gulliver. As soon as he got away from an unpleasant luncheon engagement, however, he beat it for Veere House – followed, naturally, by adequate police observation. So here we are.” Appleby paused, and then turned to Richardson. “I believe that I have now sketched the entire course of your client’s involvement – and her friend’s involvement – in the very grave matters I am investigating.”
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