Envious Casca ih-2

by Джорджетт Хейер

  "None whatsoever."

  "Looks as though he wasn't expecting trouble from his visitor, then. Those the photographs, sir? Thank you."

  He considered them for a moment or two, and remarked: "Still in his day-clothes."

  "Yes; there were no signs that he'd started to change. Ford had prepared his bath, and laid out his dinnerjacket and things."

  "He didn't have this Ford in to help him dress?"

  "Apparently he did sometimes, but not always. He rang if he wanted Ford."

  "Oh! Weapon?"

  "The doctors are agreed that the blow was struck with a thin, sharp instrument, probably a knife. You'll see the position of the wound. There was scarcely any external bleeding, but death, I'm informed, must have followed within a very few minutes."

  "I see, sir. Weapon not found?"

  "Not so far. But to my mind it hasn't been looked for," said the Major, casting a severe glance towards Inspector Colwall.

  The Inspector reddened "It was looked for in the deceased's room, sir, but you know as well as I do that it's a very big house, and what with that, and the number of people all staying there, with their baggage - well, it's a tall order to find the weapon, and I didn't like to turn the place upside-down."

  The Major looked unconvinced, but Hemingway said: "No, you'd have been at it all night and half today, I daresay."

  "Well, that's where it is," said Colwall gratefully.

  "I don't know that the weapon's going to interest me much," pursued Hemingway. "What with all these thrillers that get written nowadays by people who ought to know better than to go putting ideas into criminals' heads, there's no chance of any murderer forgetting to wipe off his finger-prints. Sickening, I call it. Now, how do you figure the murderer got into that room, Inspector?"

  Colwall shook his head. "It's got me beat. If there wasn't any hanky-panky with the key - and that's an expert's job, when you come to think of it - I don't see how anyone could have got in."

  "No; but there's one piece of evidence we mustn't forget," interposed the Chief Constable. "Stephen Herriard's cigarette-case was found lying on the floor by the fire, half-hidden by an armchair."

  "That doesn't look so good for Stephen Herriard," said Hemingway. "Does he own it?"

  "Yes, he owned it, but Miss Clare deposed that he had given it to Miss Dean before he went up to change for dinner."

  "What did she have to say to that?" asked Hemingway, addressing himself to Colwall.

  Inspector Colwall sighed. "She had a lot to say, being one of those who can't give you a plain yes or no. Anyone would have thought she expected to be charged with having committed the murder, simply through admitting she'd had the case! In the end, she did say she'd had it, but she swore she never took it out of the drawing-room. Her theory is that Mr. Stephen himself must have picked it up, and I'm bound to say it's likely he did."

  "What did he say?"

  "He didn't say much," answered Colwall reflectively. "He didn't, so to speak, get much chance, for Miss Clare started in to tell Miss Dean off good and proper, and what with that, and Mr.. Joseph trying to make me believe the case might have slipped out of Mr. Stephen's pocket after the murder had been discovered, when he was bending over the body -"

  "Could it?" interrupted Hemingway.

  "Not a chance, seeing where it was found. Mr. Stephen saw that himself. If he'd been sitting in a chair by the fire, though, and took out his case for a cigarette, and put it back sort of careless, so that it didn't slip into his pocket, but fell into the chair instead, and maybe slid off when he got up - well, that might account for it."

  "Sat down with his uncle for a chat and a quiet smoke, and then murdered him when he wasn't looking?" demanded Hemingway. "Cold-blooded chap he'd have to be!"

  "He is," said the Major shortly. "Anyone will tell you that."

  "That's right," agreed Colwall. "Cold as a fish, that's what he is. Why, from all I could see, he doesn't even care two pins for that girl of his! Didn't turn a hair when Miss Clare said that she'd had his cigarette-case. You don't catch him trying to shield anyone!"

  "Well, that's a comfort, anyway," said Hemingway. "If there's one thing that gets my goat more than another, it's coming up against a man with a lot of silly, noble ideas in his head which don't do any good to anyone. Is that all the evidence we've got, Inspector?"

  "Not quite, it isn't. One of the housemaids saw Miss Herriard coming away from her uncle's door in her dressing-gown. A bit after, the valet heard a footstep in the front hall, as he was coming up the backstairs. He just saw Mr. Roydon's door shut. But Mr. Roydon gave a perfectly reasonable explanation for that; and as for Miss Herriard, she made no bones about admitting she'd tried to get into her uncle's room, to have her row out with him. She says she found the door locked, and didn't get any answer to her knock."

  "Didn't that strike her as funny?"

  "It didn't strike anyone as funny. They all bear one another out that it was just like Mr. Herriard not to answer, if he was in a bad temper."

  "It sounds like a nice family," remarked Hemingway. The Inspector permitted himself to smile. "It is that, and no mistake. You'll see!"

  "Seems to me I'd better go up there as soon as I can," said Hemingway. "I'd like to have a word with the police surgeon, if you please, sir."

  "Yes, of course. You'll want to see the finger-prints too, I daresay," said the Major, passing him on to Inspector Colwall.

  "Half that gang up at the Manor," confided Colwall, as he closed the door of the Chief Constable's room, "will just about throw fits when they realise you're from Scotland Yard."

  "Excitable people, are they?"

  "I believe you! Miss Herriard's a real tragedy-queen, and Miss Dean's the sort who'd go off into hysterics for two pins."

  "That's young Herriard's blonde, isn't it? I've got a fancy to meet her."

  "You won't get anything out of her, not to rely on," Colwall said, staring.

  "Ah, but I've always had a weakness for blondes!" Hemingway said.

  Inspector Colwall looked at him suspiciously, but could not bring himself to believe that the good man from Scotland Yard was being flippant. "Well, you may be right," he said. "I wouldn't set any store by what she says myself. But of course I've never gone in for your branch of the service. Never had a fancy for it. I daresay it comes easy to you chaps, but if I had to spend many evenings like I did last night I should go potty. You don't know what you're up against with that crowd, Inspector."

  "That's all right," said Hemingway cheerfully. "As long as there's one blonde I've no complaints coming."

  There were, unknown to him, two blondes now awaiting him at Lexham Manor, Mrs. Dean having arrived in a hired car at an alarmingly early hour.

  None of the inmates of the house had, from their appearances, enjoyed unbroken rest during the night. Valerie, indeed, declared that she had not once closed her eyes; and even Stephen seemed more than usually morose. The party met at the breakfast-table. Joseph, who came in last of all, greeted the company with a tremulous smile, and said: "Alas, that I can't wish you all a merry Christmas! Yet it seems unfriendly, and sad, doesn't it, to let this day pass without one word to mark its character?"

  There was no immediate response to this. Finally, Valerie said: "It doesn't seem like Christmas, somehow."

  "Personally," said Roydon, "I set no store by worn-out customs."

  "If anyone is going to church," said Maud, apparently deaf to this remark, "Ledbury is bringing the car round at twenty minutes to eleven."

  "I'm afraid none of us feels quite in the mood for our usual Christmas service," said Joseph gently. "But you must go, of course, if you wish to, my dear."

  "I always go to church on Christmas Day," replied Maud. "And on Sundays, too."

  "One had not realised that there were still people who did!" said Roydon, with the air of one interested in the habits of aborigines.

  This was felt to be an observation in such bad taste that Mathilda at once offered to accompan
y Maud, and Stephen - although not going to these lengths - ranged himself on Maud's side by telling the dramatist to shut up, and get on with his breakfast.

  "Hush, Stephen!" said Joseph, yet with a sympathetic gleam in his eye.

  "You shut up too!" said Stephen. "We've listened to enough nauseating twaddle to last us for a fortnight. In case it interests anyone, Uncle Nat's solicitor is coming down here by the eleven-fifteen from Waterloo. If Ledbury is fetching you from church, Aunt Maud, you'll have to drive on to pick Blyth up at the station afterwards."

  Maud showed herself perfectly ready to fall in with this plan, but Mottisfont, who had been making only the barest pretence of eating, said with a good deal of meaning: "Very high-handed! Let us hope that someone is not in for a disappointment."

  Stephen showed his admirable teeth in a singularly disagreeable smile. "Is that meant for me?"

  Mottisfont shrugged. "Oh, if the cap fits -!"

  "For heaven's sake, Edgar!" interposed Joseph. "Surely if anyone has the right to object to Stephen's taking charge of things it is I!"

  "Well, if I were you I wouldn't put up with it for a moment."

  Joseph tried to exchange a smile with Stephen. "Ah, but I'm not a clever business man like you, Edgar! I'm only a muddleheaded old artist - if I may be so bold as to lay claim to that title - and Stephen knows well that I'm grateful to him for all that he's doing."

  Paula, who had been crumbling a roll in glowering abstraction, intercepted the offensive reply which everyone felt to be hovering on Stephen's tongue by saying suddenly: "How long will it be before we get probate?"

  Everyone was rather startled by this, and as no one else seemed inclined to answer her Joseph said: "My dear, I'm afraid we aren't thinking of such things just yet."

  She cast him one of her scornful, impatient glances. "Well, I am. If Uncle Nat's left me the money he always said he would I shall put Wormwood on."

  Roydon flushed, and muttered something unintelligible. Valerie said that she would make a point of going to see it. She gave it as her opinion that it would be marvellous. Mathilda hoped, privately, that this appreciation would in some measure compensate Roydon for the marked lack of enthusiasm displayed by everyone else. She rose from the table, and went away to smoke a cigarette in the library.

  Here she was soon joined, rather to her annoyance, by Mottisfont, who, after remarking aimlessly that one missed one's morning paper, began to wander about the room, fidgeting with blind-cords, matchboxes, cushions, and anything else that came in the way of his unquiet hands.

  After a few minutes, Mathilda laid down her book. "You seem worried, Mr. Mottisfont."

  "Well, who wouldn't be?" he demanded, coming to the fire. "I don't know how you can go on as though nothing had happened! Apart from anything else, Stephen's manner -"

  "Oh, Stephen!" she said. "You ought to know him by now, surely!"

  "Ill-mannered cub!" he muttered. "Taking things into his own hands, without so much as a by-your=leave! I call it thoroughly officious, and why on earth he must needs drag Nat's solicitor down here on Christmas Day, God alone knows! Anxious to get his hands on Nat's will, I suppose. Indecent, I call it!"

  "The solicitor ought to come at once," she replied rather shortly. "The police are bound to want to go through Nat's papers, for one thing."

  It struck her that he winced slightly at this. He said: "They aren't likely to find anything."

  "You never know," Mathilda said.

  "Everyone knows that Nat was a hot-tempered old - a hot-tempered man who said a lot of things he didn't mean. Why, I, for instance, have had dozens of quarrels with him! They always blew over. That's what the police don't understand. They'll go picking on things that have no bearing on the murder at all, and try to make out a case from them against some unfortunate person who had nothing to do with it."

  She had a strong suspicion that the unfortunate person he had in mind was himself. "Oh, I shouldn't think they'd do that!" she said, in a reassuring tone. "After all, they must have realised by now that Nat quarrelled with everyone."

  "Yes, but -" He stopped, reddening, and took off his glasses, and began to polish them. "I haven't any opinion of that Inspector we had here last night. Unimaginative fool, I thought. Rather offensive too. What do you think of his locking Nat's study? As though any of us would dream of touching anything in it! Very uncalled-for! Sheer officialdom!"

  Mathilda now felt reasonably certain that there was in existence some document which Mottisfont wanted to get his hands on. She returned a noncommittal answer, and was relieved of the necessity of sustaining any more of a difficult dialogue by the entrance of Roydon.

  Edgar Mottisfont looked at him in an exasperated kind of way, but Roydon seemed to have come in search of Mathilda, and took no notice of him. "Oh, there you are, Miss Clare! Are you really going to church?"

  "Yes," said Mathilda firmly.

  "Well, could I have a word with you before you go? It isn't important! - at least, it doesn't really matter - but I thought I'd like to."

  Mathilda reflected that fright had had an appalling effect upon Mr. Roydon's powers of self-expression. "All right, as long as it hasn't anything to do with the murder," she said.

  "Oh no, nothing to do with that!" he assured her.

  "I suppose you want me to go?" said Mottisfont.

  Roydon disclaimed, not very convincingly, but Mottisfont said with a short laugh that he knew how to take a hint, and left the room.

  "Well?" said Mathilda.

  "It's nothing much, but you took such an intelligent interest in my work that I wanted to tell you that I've thought over what you said, and come to the conclusion you were right. Either Wormwood is good enough to stand on its own merits, or it had better be chucked into the incinerator. I daresay that you heard Paula say that she would put it on. Well, I shan't let her. The whole idea of getting a backer was wrong."

  "I see," said Mathilda, more than a hint of dryness in her voice.

  "I felt I'd like you to know."

  "Yes, I quite see."

  "Of course, Paula doesn't quite understand. She's so keen to play the part. As a matter of fact, the idea of getting her uncle to back the play was hers, not mine. I don't really think I ought to have let her talk me into it. I never was quite happy about it, and then when you said what you did, I made up my mind that I wouldn't be under an obligation to anyone over it. Paula doesn't see it in that light yet. Of course, it's very generous of her, but -"

  "But equally embarrassing," supplied Mathilda.

  "Oh, I don't know about that exactly! Only, I thought that you might be able to make her understand my point of view. I mean, if she says anything to you about it."

  "I should think," said Mathilda, extracting the butt of her cigarette from its holder, and throwing it into the fire, "that she would be quite capable of appreciating your point of view without any assistance."

  He looked sharply at her; she met his challenging stare steadily, and after a few moments his eyes shifted from hers, and he said lamely: "You see, she's tremendously keen on the play. It's rather difficult for me to say anything."

  "Yes, I should think it might be," she agreed.

  He said in an injured tone: "I thought you would understand the way I feel."

  "I do."

  "Well, then -" he began uncertainly. He did not seem to know how to continue, and started again. "Besides which, I don't think it's altogether wise of her to talk so openly about what she means to do with her legacy, do you? I mean, it might so easily give people a totally wrong impression."

  "Of her, or of you?"

  The colour rushed up into his face; he looked very much discomposed, but after a moment blurted out: "Of both of us, I suppose."

  "Yes," said Mathilda. "I like you so much better when you're honest, Mr. Roydon."

  "I wasn't aware that I had ever been anything else," he said stiffly.

  She saw that she had deeply offended him, and was not sorry that Paula should choose tha
t moment to stalk into the room.

  "Why," demanded Paula, in her deep, throbbing voice, "are the police letting us alone this morning?"

  "I can't think. I was merely thankful," replied Mathilda.

  "There's nothing to be thankful for. I believe it means Scotland Yard."

  Roydon gazed at her with something of the expression of a fascinated rabbit. "Why should it mean that?"

  "My dear Willoughby, can't you see how obvious it was from the start that Scotland Yard would be called in? Think! Uncle Nat was murdered in a locked room! Do you imagine that the local police can cope with that? If I weren't so closely connected with the crime, I think I should find it absorbingly interesting," she added, considering the matter dispassionately.

  "Anyone is welcome to my ring-seat," said Mathilda. "I do hope you're wrong about Scotland Yard."

  "You know I'm not."

  "Well, if you're not, I do think you ought to be more careful of what you say, Paula!" said Roydon.

  Her brilliant gaze drifted to his face. "Why? In what way?"

  "About my play, for instance. I was just saying to Miss Clare, when you came in, that you might easily give people a wrong impression by talking of backing it. Besides, though I'm awfully grateful, I've changed my mind about it. Miss Clare made me see yesterday that it would be a mistake to rely on a backer."

  The expression of contempt which swept over Paula's face made her look suddenly like Stephen. "You've got cold feet," she said. "Whether you like it, or whether you don't, I'm going to put your play on."

  "It's extremely generous of you, but -"

  "It's nothing of the kind. I'm not doing it from any personal motive, but because I believe in the play. I don't know how you came to write it, but you did, and that's all that concerns me."

  He did not know how to interpret these remarks, and merely said: "Yes, but it's sheer folly to tell everyone what you mean to do."

  "You're wrong! Stupidly wrong! Everyone knows that I care desperately about Wormwood. I made no secret of it. You heard what I said to Uncle Nat! I should be a fool to change my tune now that Uncle's dead. As big a fool as you, Willoughby!"