“But if they were having a fight,” said Edmund, “wouldn’t poison be a rather roundabout way of killing her?”
“You’re right,” said Lenox. “I think Claude must have persuaded her to hold her tongue for a little while. I would guess she said yes reluctantly, and gave them enough time to poison her.
“Incidentally, I found something else suspicious: a handkerchief in Eustace’s room, under his bed, that smelled of peppermint and wax and may have had a residue of wax on it. My guess is that Eustace cleaned his cousin’s arm with his own handkerchief and then kept it—knowing his alibi for the murder of Prue Smith was secure—in case he should need to blackmail Claude or, indeed, turn him in with the handkerchief as evidence.
“And there was something else as well—young Hilary, the MP. I sat next to him at the ball, and in passing he said that Claude and Eustace, who belonged to his club, seemed thick as thieves. I didn’t think of it until just recently. He also mentioned—but several minutes later, so I didn’t connect it—that they had come into money.
“I should have noticed this right away, and I should have noticed other things as well. Their alibis were too good. To hear that Eustace painted for an arduous amount of time, very noticeably not leaving the room in his supposed intensity—and then to hear from him that he had slapped on the rest of the paint the next day? Why be so fastidious and then so sloppy? For an airtight alibi, which the next day was no longer necessary to maintain. I should really have noticed this straightaway. Whenever an alibi is too good, it bears investigation.”
“Same goes for Claude,” Edmund said. “Maybe it was a bit too easy to follow him around, now that I think of it.”
“You may be right,” Lenox said. “Though you did an admirable job, they themselves, you said, noticed your attentiveness. He made faces at you, I recall.”
“That’s right,” Edmund said.
“That seems incorrect though,” said Lady Jane. “Why tell Edmund they had seen him?”
“Overconfidence,” said Edmund.
“That’s right,” Lenox went on. “When they met briefly and Claude hit Eustace, they must have very quickly hatched a plan for Claude to be easily followed and Eustace to disappear. After all, Eustace had his alibi; Claude was the one under suspicion. But don’t feel badly, Edmund. They fooled me far more easily than they fooled you.”
Lenox tapped his pipe thoughtfully against his hand. “But why?” he said. “Why all of this? Why murder Soames, and even murder someone to get to Soames? What power did he have?
“I had concluded that the valuable thing in Barnard’s house would be very difficult to move, which is the first thing a burglar thinks about—consider the everlasting popularity of diamonds—and that murdering Prue Smith and Jack Soames wouldn’t even begin the job. I’m speaking to you, Edmund.”
“Absolutely right,” Edmund said. “Especially in a crowded house. You would need twenty men to walk inconspicuously through the house. The party would have been a bad time for it.”
“Exactly. Why, then? First, we knew that Claude and Eustace came from poor branches of the family. But in fact, as they had both willingly admitted, they had received ten thousand pounds from their uncle upon reaching the majority. They were financially secure. And I suspect Barnard has done equally well by his brother and sister. He has a great deal of pride, so I imagine he supported them less from generosity than from the dislike of being shamed by the poverty of his family.”
“I remember his saying to me that his nephews were set for life,” Lady Jane said.
“Did he? That seems like the sort of thing he’d say. However that was, the two nephews had some money. Eustace said he had put it in the railway fund at four percent and Claude said he had discovered an opportunity in the Americas. Well. They could expect more, no doubt, upon Barnard’s death—but I think neither wanted to be a workingman until then. Note that they still live with him, when most young men want their own digs. It is a fact to stow away, and I shall return to it in a moment.
“What next? I recommended the newspapers with the notices of Soames’s death to Exeter, and he blithely ignored the advice; predictably, they became the crux of the case, in my mind.
“Why, when he was completely solvent, did people say that Jack Soames was ruined? Who started that rumor? It was a diversion, I would guess. The two lads started it. My guess is they told their uncle, who, as all three of us know, can be a gossip after a glass of wine. They knew as well that there was”—he looked at Edmund—“that valuable thing under their roof. Perhaps Prue had discovered their plan to steal it some weeks before the ball >and was only quiet about it because of Claude’s begging, and at last they decided that it was too risky.”
“Why didn’t you suspect Claude straightaway, if I may ask, sir?” This was Graham.
“They handled it cleverly. Until Soames was killed, they needed a way to remove suspicion from Claude, who would have no alibi for murdering Prue Smith. Perhaps it was a sense of humor, or perhaps they figured Soames to be stupid and friendly, but I suspect that they led Exeter (and me) in the direction of suspecting Soames. They spread it about that he was a ruined man, knowing the mind of a detective is constantly in search of motive. And the real motive was in fact not the valuable thing in Barnard’s house, which took me even farther afield and left the nephews plenty of breathing room until they could kill Soames, by which time both of them would have an alibi.
“But this is speculation. Let us return to fact. I doubt many people read in the Post that in fact Soames was not ruined—but I did. That set my mind clicking. And more importantly, I think all of you did read The Times. Think back on it—or on any of the reputable reports. They all emphasized the same points: athletics, service in Parliament, social circle, and his recent service on the board of the Pacific Trust. It is this last that I realized today was most important. Edmund, you yourself tipped me off.”
“How did I manage that?”
“You said you wouldn’t give all the money in the funds for something or other, and I saw I had been missing the plainest clue all along. The valuable item in Barnard’s house, as I said, was not the object of the crime. It was the Pacific Trust.
“There is a lesson to me in this. Apparently, the vote of the Pacific has been one of the stories of the past six months in the financial world. Graham, you tried to get me to look into it—all credit to you. I should have listened to you.”
“I recommended it for the wrong reasons, sir.”
“But you were on to something. I rarely read the financial news. Perhaps I even think myself above it, if I’m to be honest—the City and all of that. A huge mistake, which I only caught by the grace of God. I shall read the financial papers thoroughly from now on. Graham, make me do it if I start to slack, would you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Graham, his eyebrows a little raised, a small smile on his lips.
“The Pacific Trust—well, I shan’t bore you with details. It is a company that has been extremely successful, and its shareholders have received steady dividends while the price of shares tripled. But there are very few shareholders. The minimum investment is eighteen thousand pounds. Now, very few people in England have eighteen thousand pounds, and even fewer have a margin comfortably enough above that sum that they are willing to invest it in an extremely speculative venture.
“Here Soames comes in. Suffice it to say that he sat on the board and represented, about a month ago, the swing vote in a decision that had to do with the basic fate of the company. There was a pile of revenue sitting in the bank: would they release it to shareholders or would they reinvest it? If they were to release it, an investment of eighteen thousand pounds would have become a clear 180,000 pounds, not counting dividends already received. However, the company would essentially have dissolved, and the shares would be worth almost nothing. Still, many shareholders favored this.
“If they reinvested it, the second option, the Pacific Trust would become nearly the most valuable company in
England. An investment of eighteen thousand pounds would have yielded a payoff of the original eighteen thousand, as a large one-time dividend, while shareholders maintained their shares, which would have instantly become more valuable and presumably grown and grown. But no further income would be available to the shareholders for, say, twenty or thirty years.
“Virtually every outside observer favored the second option,saying that in the long term the generated wealth would exceed even the alluring 180,000 pounds. Virtually all shareholders favored the former. Soames’s vote was, as I say, decisive; the company decided for the payout of eighteen thousand pounds and the solidification of the Pacific’s status—the choice that led to long-term stability.
“It was a good deal either way, really. By Soames’s vote, an investor received his original investment back and still owned the shares, which would become infinitely more valuable in the long term. Eventually, most shareholders accepted this fact. Two who didn’t were Claude and Eustace.”
“What?” said Edmund and Lady Jane, nearly at the same time.
“They had taken the twenty thousand pounds from their uncle and invested it in the Pacific. I spent all afternoon searching through the Pacific files and at last found what I thought I would, a certificate of joint ownership. They invested the money together four years ago—jointly, which the company permits. They did not, as they had said, invest in the four percents and an American company, respectively. And where there’s a lie, there’s motive.”
“How did they know so much about money?” Lady Jane asked. “Did their uncle help them?”
“I suspect it was Eustace who prompted the action. Claude would not be averse to speculation, or so he strikes me, and Eustace seems deeply interested, I think, in living the life of a gentleman. Smart, too. He hates the feeling of inequality that was instilled in him by his rich uncle. So does Claude. One hundred thousand pounds each from the Pacific Trust would have ensured that neither of them would be forced to work again, and given each of them a clear five thousand pounds a year for life, which is very handsome for anybody, you’ll admit.
“But if they had received ten thousand pounds each, with no guarantee of more for a few decades, they would have been in a bind. Most men in England could live their whole lives on that sum. But not two young gentleman with a taste for luxury in London, when certain young noblemen live from quarterly payment to quarterly payment on seven thousand a year.”
“The Marchmain boys on even more,” Lady Jane murmured.
“Precisely. Such a sum would by no means guarantee either of them a life of certain ease. A good amount of money—but not one that would have allowed them to shoot, to own a string of horses, to travel, to live in London and the country, and to marry above their station. Titled ladies, say. Which was, I suspect, what both of them wanted.”
“They must have discovered how Soames would vote when he went to protect the mint, poor chap,” Edmund said.
“I think you’re right. They would have followed the vote closely—and they would also have known, as I learned from The Times after Soames’s death, that James Maitland had been virtually promised the next vacancy on the board, being one of the company’s chief investors, and that he favored the more investor-friendly option.
“What happened then, we know. They planned to murder Soames, under the favorable condition of a ball, which adds confusion to any incident, and with the false lead of the valuable object in Barnard’s house, which would divert any detective. Prue Smith, who served upstairs, must have been in the hall near midmorning, when the servants were eating and the other people in the house were out, before everyone gathered for lunch. I imagine she had nipped upstairs to visit Claude. Claude and Eustace thought they were alone; somehow discovered they weren’t; placated Prue Smith, cajoled, browbeat, I don’t know, but in one way or another convinced her not to tell. Now that I consider it, I think they must have told her they were only imagining something out loud that they would never do. She would have wanted to believe in Claude. She shouldn’t have, of course, but I think she did.
“I believe that’s all. I think there’s little danger that the two young men will leave town. They think, particularly with Exeter bumbling around, that they’re off scot-free. After all, they both have alibis. But indeed we know that their alibis don’t hold up—and Edmund’s experience tonight proves it conclusively; just why I sent you, dear brother.”
Both Lady Jane and Sir Edmund had a few small questions, which Lenox answered or made his best guess to answer. Finally, when they were satisfied, the detective stood up.
“Will you please send notes to Inspector Exeter and Dr. Mc-Connell, asking them to stop by this evening?” he asked Graham.
“I shall send for them immediately, sir.”
Chapter 45
Soon thereafter, Edmund went upstairs and took a hot bath, while Lenox showed Lady Jane a new map he had ordered: Persia. He would travel south, from Isfahan to Shiraz, he told her. She laughed and pointed out that it was a long trip and something would always detain him, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge the fact. He said he would hire a guide, and he and Graham would take the mountain train, which was new and quick. He asked if she would like to come, and she said no, thank you, but that she was eager for the day when they went to Italy together, which they had long vowed to do. It was where she had gone on her honeymoon.
“Oh, Charles—Venice! Did you ever go?”
“No,” he said. “Only Rome.”
“It’s wonderful. And Florence, Siena—how vividly I remember it!”
He smiled as he listened to her tell him about the places she had gone when she was young and married, but really he was thinking about something else entirely: how he thought her more beautiful now than he had even at her wedding, when she had been only twenty and radiant.
Soon Edmund came down, looking significantly cleaner and happier. He looked at the map of Persia, too, and commented that perhaps his brother would actually go this time.
There was a knock on the door just after Lenox carefully folded the map and put it back in the old umbrella stand. He met Graham at the door and offered to open it himself, expecting McConnell or Exeter.
Instead, covered in a thin layer of snow, eyes bloodshot, Claude Barnard stood on his doorstep.
“Mr. Lenox? May I have a word?”
“Why, yes,” Lenox said, taken entirely aback. “Graham, please show Mr. Barnard into the back parlor. I’ll join you momentarily,” he said to Claude.
He quickly went back to the library. “Claude Barnard is here,” he said, giving them no time to respond. “Jane, you stay here, or go home if you’d rather. Edmund, you come stand by the door to the back parlor, if you please. In case he attempts any violence, I shall give the old call.” This was a bird call they used to have when they were children. It could mean “Look!” or “Here I am!” or “Help!”
“Yes, of course,” said Edmund. “Of course.”
“I would ask you to sit in, but he may be volatile.”
“All the more reason, Charles.”
“No. I absolutely forbid it, if you’ll allow me.”
Edmund shrugged. Within minutes, Lenox had entered the back parlor and Edmund was stationed by the door.
Lenox paused for a moment when he went in. It was a small room, rarely used, filled with mistakes: a poorly designed chair, an uncomfortable desk, a mediocre painting. Its only saving grace was a small window, looking out onto the small garden by the house. That was where Claude stood, smoking a cigarette, his hands in his jacket pockets.
He looked sorrowful—and leaner by a noticeable measure even in the last two or three days. He didn’t hear Lenox enter, and for a moment Lenox watched, saddened. He felt very little pity, to be sure, but all the young man’s charm had become melancholy.
“Mr. Barnard?” Lenox said at last.
Claude turned. “Oh, hello, Mr. Lenox. Cold day, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” There was a silence. “Would you
like to sit?”
Claude nodded, and the two men sat in ugly horsehair armchairs facing each other.
“I’m afraid I can’t compliment your taste, Mr. Lenox.”
“I rarely come into this room.”
“Ah—yes.”
“How may I help you, Mr. Barnard?”
Claude laughed bitterly. “Help me. Well, well.”
“Shall I put it another way? What would you like to say to me?”
“I feel as if I live in a dream, Mr. Lenox. Everything has gone so—so wrong.”
“Yes, it has,” said Lenox.
Claude looked up sharply. “I’m not certain that you know.”
“On the contrary, I know it all.”
Now the young man’s look changed to astonishment. “All of it? Surely not.”
“Yes, I assure you.”
“Will you tell me?”
“You and your cousin Eustace murdered Prudence Smith and Jack Soames in order to realize the benefit of your shares in the Pacific Trust.”
Claude shook his head. “Yes, I see you do.” He sighed. “My last solace was to come to you of my own will, and now I don’t even have that.”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Lenox. “You did. You might easily be across the channel. But that is by no means an exoneration.”
“Exoneration? I tell you—” He broke off and lit another cigarette. After a moment, he spoke again. “Yes: I come to you of my own free will. I’ve no doubt I’ll hang. Anything but living a moment longer in this nightmare.”
“Eustace was the instigator.”
“Eustace… Eustace. You wouldn’t think it, Mr. Lenox, but behind those tedious opinions and miserable manners he can be the most persuasive fellow in the world.”
“You had better begin at the beginning,” said Lenox.
He took a puff of his cigarette. “If you know it all, I don’t see why I should humiliate myself in recounting it.”
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