“I have,” said the Colonel. “And I think you should know, Mr Carrington, that her attitude has been extremely - equivocal, let us say.”
“I'm sure it has,” said Giles sympathically. “She can be very tiresome.”
The Superintendent, who had been watching him, said suddenly: “I wonder, Mr Carrington, whether by any chance you are also Mr Arnold Vereker's solicitor?”
“I am,” replied Giles. “I am also one of his executors.”
“Well, then, Colonel,” said Hannasyde, with a smile, “we must be grateful to Miss Vereker, mustn't we? You are the very man I want, Mr Carrington.”
“Yes, I've realised that for some time,” agreed Giles.
“But I think I'd better see my cousin first.”
“Undoubtedly. And Mr Carrington!” Giles lifted an eyebrow. The twinkle in the Superintendent's eye became more pronounced. “Do try to convince Miss Vereker that really the police won't arrest her merely because she disliked her half-brother.”
“I'll try,” said Giles gravely, “but I'm afraid she hasn't much of an opinion of the police. You see, she breeds bull-terriers, and they fight rather.”
The Superintendent watched him go out in the wake of Inspector Jerrold, and turned to look at the Colonel. “I like that chap,” he said in his decided way. “He's going to help me.”
“Well, I hope he may,” said the Colonel. “What struck me most forcibly was that he showed almost as little proper feeling at hearing of his cousin's death as the girl did.”
“Yes, it struck me too,” said Hannasyde. “It looks as though Arnold Vereker was the sort of man who had a good many enemies.”
Meanwhile Giles Carrington had been escorted to the room where Antonia awaited him. The Inspector left him at the door, and he went in, closing the door firmly behind him. “Hullo, Tony!” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.
Antonia, who was standing by the window, drumming her fingers on the glass, turned round quickly. She was looking a little pale, and more than a little fierce, but the glowering look faded, and some colour stole into her cheeks when she saw her cousin. “Hullo, Giles!” she returned, with just a suggestion of embarrassment in her manner. “I'm glad you've come. Arnold's been murdered.”
“Yes, so I've heard,” he answered, pulling a chair up to the table. “Sit down and tell me just what asinine tricks you've been up to.”
“You needn't assume I've been asinine just because I happen to be in a mess!” snapped Antonia.
“I don't. I assume it because I know you awfully well, my child. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you weren't on speaking terms with Arnold.”
“I wasn't. But something happened, and I wanted to see him at once, so I came down -”
He interrupted her. “What happened?”
“Well, that's private. Anyway -”
“Cut out the anyway,” returned her cousin. “You've called me in to act for you, Tony, and you must take me into your confidence.”
She set her elbows on the table and leaned her chin on her clasped hands, frowning. “I can't, altogether. However, I don't mind telling you that my reason for wanting to see Arnold was because he's started to interfere with my life again, and that made me see red.”
“What had he done?”
“Written me a stinking letter about -” She stopped. “About my engagement,” she said after a moment.
“I didn't know you were engaged,” remarked Giles. “Who is it this time?”
“Don't say who is it this time, as though I'd been engaged dozens of times! I've only been engaged once before.”
“Sorry. Who is it?”
“Rudolph Mesurier,” said Antonia.
“Do you mean that dark fellow in Arnold's Company?” asked Giles.
“Yes. He's the Chief Accountant.”
There was a short pause. “This is quite beside the point,” apologised Giles, “but what's the great idea?”
“Why shouldn't I marry Rudolph if I feel like it?”
“I don't know. I was wondering how you came to feel like it, that's all.”
She grinned suddenly. “You are a noxious cad, Giles. I do think I ought to marry someone or other, because Kenneth will, sooner or later, and I don't want to be left stranded.” A rather forlorn look came into her eyes. “I'm sick of being all alone, and having to look after myself, and, anyway, I like Rudolph a lot.”
“I see. And did Arnold object?”
“Of course he did. I thought he'd be rather pleased at getting rid of his responsibilities as a matter of fact, because he's tried often enough to marry me off. So I wrote and told him about it, because though you say I'm unreasonable I quite realise I can't get married, or anything, without his consent till I'm twenty-five. And instead of sending me his blessing, he wrote the filthiest letter, and said he wouldn't hear of it.”
“Why?”
“No reason at all. Snobbery.”
“Now, look here, Tony!” Giles said. “I know Arnold, and I know you. I don't say he was the type of fellow I cultivate, but he wasn't as bad as you and Kenneth thought him. Yes, I know you two had a rotten time with him but it's always been my firm conviction that you brought a lot of it on yourselves. So don't tell me that he refused to give his consent to your marriage without letting you know why. He was much more likely not to care a damn what you did.”
“Well, he didn't like Rudolph,” said Antonia restively. “He wanted me to make a better match.”
Giles sighed. “You'd better let me see his letter. Where is it?”
She pointed to the ashtray at the end of the table, a sort of naughty triumph in her eyes.
Giles looked at the black ashes in it, and then rather sternly at his cousin. “Tony, you little fool, what made you do such a damned silly thing?”
“I had to, Giles; really I had to! You know that awful way we all have of blurting out what we happen to be thinking? Well, I went and told those policemen I'd had a letter from Arnold, and they were instantly mustard keen to see it. And it hadn't anything to do with the murder; it was just private, so I burned it. It's no use asking me what was in it, because I shan't tell you. It just wasn't the sort of letter you want anyone else to see.”
He looked at her frowningly. “You're not making things very easy for me, Tony. I can't help you if you don't trust me.”
She slipped her hand confidingly into one of his. “I know, and I'm awfully sorry, but it's just One of Those Things. We needn't say I've burned the letter. We can chuck the ashes out of the window and pretend it's lost.”
“Go on and tell me the rest of the story,” Giles said.
“When did you receive the letter?”
“Yesterday, at tea-time. And I rang up Eaton Place, but Arnold wasn't there, so I naturally supposed he was coming down to Ashleigh Green, with one of his fancy ladies, and I got the car out, and came after him.”
“For the Lord's sake, Tony, leave out the bit about the fancy-lady! No sane policeman will ever believe you would motor down to argue with Arnold when you thought he had a woman with him.”
She opened her eyes at him. “But I did!”
“Yes, I know you did. You would. But don't say it. You don't know he had a woman with him, do you?”
“No, but it seemed likely.”
“Then leave that out. What happened when you got to the cottage?”
“Nothing. Arnold wasn't there. So I squeezed in through the pantry window, and waited for him. You know how it is when one does that. You keep on saying, "Well, I'll give him another half-hour," and time sort of slips by. And anyway I knew he was coming, because the place was prepared. Well, he didn't turn up, and didn't turn up, and I didn't much fancy motoring back again at that hour, so I went to bed.”
“Can you prove you didn't go out of the cottage again that night?” Giles said.
“No, because I did: I took Bill for a run somewhere about half-past eleven, and he had a dust-up with a retriever.”
“That may be useful. Anyone
with the retriever?”
“Yes, a woman like a moulting hen. But it isn't useful, in fact, rather the reverse, because I walked towards the village, as far as the cross-roads, and I was coming back when I met the hen-and-retriever outfit. So I might quite easily have stuck a knife into Arnold before that. And perhaps I ought to tell you that I got retriever-blood on this skirt, and had to wash it. Because when the police came I was drying it. So what with that, and my being a trifle snarkish with them at first, on account of thinking they'd come about the dog-fight, I daresay I may have set them against me.”
“I shouldn't be surprised,” said Giles. “One other question: Does Kenneth know you're here?”
“No, as a matter of fact, he doesn't. He was out when I got Arnold's letter. But you know what he is: I daresay he hasn't even noticed that I'm not at home. If he has, he'll merely suppose I told him I was going away for the night and he forgot.”
“I wasn't worrying about that. Did anyone know you were coming here?”
“Well, I didn't say anything to anyone,” replied Antonia helpfully. She regarded him with a certain amount of anxiety. “Do you suppose they'll think I did it?”
“I hope not. The fact that you spent the night at the cottage ought to tell in your favour. But you must stop fooling about, Tony. The police want you to account for your movements last night. We must trust that they won't inquire too closely into the letter Arnold wrote you. Otherwise you've nothing to conceal, and you must tell them the truth, and answer any questions they put to you.”
“How do you know I've nothing to conceal?” inquired Antonia, eyeing him wickedly. “I wouldn't have minded murdering Arnold last night.”
“I assume you have nothing to conceal,” Giles said a little sharply.
She smiled. “Nice Giles. Do you loathe being dragged into our murky affairs?”
“I can think of things I like better. You'd better come along to the Chief Constable's office and apologise for being such a nuisance.”
“And answer a lot of questions?” she asked doubtfully. “Yes, answer anything you can, but try not to say a lot of unnecessary things.”
She looked rather nervous. “Well, you'd better frown at me if I do. I wish you could make a statement for me.”
“So do I, but I can't,” said Giles, getting up, and opening the door. “I'll find out if the Chief Constable is disengaged. You stay where you are.”
He was gone for several minutes, and when he returned it was with the Superintendent and a Constable. Antonia looked at the Constable with deep misgiving. Her cousin smiled reassuringly and said, “This is Superintendent Hannasyde, Tony, from Scotland Yard.”
“How — how grim!” said Antonia in a small voice. “It's particularly bitter because I've always thought how much I should hate to be mixed up in a murder case, on account of having everything you say turned round till you find you've said something quite different.”
The Superintendent bent to pat Bill. “I won't do that,” he promised. “I only want you to tell me just how you came to visit your brother last night, and what you did.”
Antonia drew in her breath. “He was not my brother,” she said. “I'm sick to death of correcting that mistake. He was nothing more than half!”
“I'm sorry,” said the Superintendent. “You see, I've only just come into this case, so you must forgive me if I quite mastered the details. Will you sit down? I understand from Inspector Jerrold that you came to Ashleigh Green yesterday because you wanted to see your half-brother on a private matter. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Antonia.
“And when you arrived at the cottage what did you do?”
Antonia gave him a concise account of her movements. Once or twice he prompted her with a question, while the Constable, who had seated himself by the door, busily wrote in shorthand. The Superintendent's manner, unlike the Inspector's, was so free from suspicion, and his way of putting his questions so quiet and understanding, that Antonia's wary reserve soon left her. When he asked her if she was on good terms with Arnold Vereker she replied promptly. “No, very bad terms. I know it isn't any use concealing that, because everyone knows it. We both were.”
“Both?”
“My brother Kenneth and I. We live together. He's an artist.”
“I see. Were you on bad terms with your half-brother for any specific reason, or merely on general grounds?”
She wrinkled up her nose. “Well, not so much one specific reason as two or three. He was our guardian - at least he'd stopped being Kenneth's guardian, because Kenneth is over twenty-five. I lived with him till a year ago, when I decided I couldn't stick it any longer, and then I cleared out and joined Kenneth.”
“Did your bro - half-brother object to that?”
“Oh no, not in the least, because we'd just had a flaming row about a disgusting merchant he was trying to push me off on to, and he was extremely glad to be rid of me.”
“And had this quarrel persisted?”
“More or less. Well, no, not really. We merely kept out of each other's way as much as possible. I don't mean that we didn't quarrel when we happened to meet, but it wasn't about the merchant, or having left Eaton Place, but just any old thing.”
The twinkle grew. “Tell me, Miss Vereker, did you come down to Ashleigh Green with the intention of continuing an old quarrel, or starting a new one?”
“Starting a new one. Oh, that isn't fair! You made me say that, and it isn't in the least what I meant. I won't have that written down for me to sign.”
“It won't be,” he assured her. “But you did come down because you were angry with him, didn't you?”
“Did I say that to the Inspector?” Antonia demanded.
He nodded. “All right, then, yes.”
“Why were you angry, Miss Vereker?”
“Because he'd had the infernal neck to say I wasn't going to marry the man I'm engaged to.”
“Who is that?” inquired the Superintendent.
“I don't see what that's got to do with it.”
Giles Carrington interposed: “Is your engagement a secret, Tony?”
“No, but -”
“Then don't be silly.”
She flushed, and looked down at her hands. “His name is Mesurier,” she said. “He works in my half-brother's firm.”
“And your half-brother objected to the engagement?”
“Yes, because he was a ghastly snob.”
“So he wrote a letter to you, forbidding the engagement?”
“Yes - That is - Yes.”
The Superintendent waited for a moment. “You don't seem very sure about that, Miss Vereker.”
“Yes, I am. He did write.”
“And I think you've destroyed his letter, haven't you?” said Hannasyde quietly.
Her eyes flew to his face: then she burst out laughing. “That's clever of you. How did you guess?”
“Why did you do that, Miss Vereker?”
“Well, principally because it was the sort of letter that would make anyone want to commit murder, and I thought it would be safer,” Antonia replied, ingenuously.
The Superintendent looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, and then got up. “I think it was a pity you destroyed it,” he said. “But we won't go into that now.”
“Are you going to arrest me?” Antonia asked.
He smiled. “Not immediately. Mr Carrington, if I could have a few moments' conversation with you?”
“Can I go home?” said Antonia hopefully.
“Certainly, but I want you to sign your statement first, please. The Constable will have it ready for you in a moment or two.”
“Where's your car, Tony?” asked Giles. “At the cottage? Well, wait for me here, and I'll take you out to collect it, and give you some lunch.”
“Well, thank God for that,” said Antonia. “I've just discovered I've got exactly two and five pence ha'penny on me, and I want some petrol.”
“How like you, Tony!” said Giles, and foll
owed the Superintendent out of the room.
Chapter Four
The Chief Constable had gone to lunch, and his office was empty. Hannasyde closed the door and said: “I shall want to go through the dead man's papers, Mr Carrington. Can you meet me at his house to-morrow morning?”
Giles nodded. “Certainly.”
“And the Will…”
“In my keeping.”
“I shall have to ask you to let me see it.”
Giles said, with a flickering smile: “It would be a waste of your time and my energy to protest, wouldn't it?”
“Thanks,” said Hannasyde, his own lips curving a little. “It would, of course.” He took out his notebook and opened it. “I understand that the dead man was chairman and managing director of the Shan Hills Mine? Is that correct?”
“Quite correct.”
“Unmarried?”
Giles sat down on the edge of the table. “Yes.”
“Can you tell me of what his immediate family consists?”
“His half-brother and half-sister, that's all.” Giles took out a cigarette and tapped it on his case. “Arnold Vereker was the eldest son of Geoffrey Vereker by his first wife, my father's sister, Maud. He was forty last December. There was one other son by that marriage, Roger, who would be thirty-eight if he were alive now — which, thank heaven, he's not. He was not precisely an ornament to the family, There was a certain amount of relief felt when he cleared out years ago. He went to South America, and I believe got himself mixed up in some revolution or other. Anyway, he's been dead about seven years now. Kenneth Vereker and his sister Antonia are the offspring of a second marriage. Their mother died shortly after Antonia's birth. My uncle died a month or two before Roger, leaving both Kenneth and Antonia under Arnold's guardianship.”
“Thank you, Mr Carrington: I hoped you would be able to help me. Can you tell me what sort of man Arnold Vereker was?”
“A man with a genius for making enemies,” replied Giles promptly. “He was one of those natural bullies who can yet make themselves very pleasant when they choose. Queer chap, with a streak of appalling vulgarity. Yet at the bottom there was something quite likeable about him. Chief hobbies, women and social climbing.”
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