‘Still, poets must be alike in some way.’
‘Certainly they are. They all write poetry.’
‘Well, then, that would make them all alike, at least partly.’
‘Would it?’ Cadogan exhaled a cloud of smoke and watched it drift, spectral and gauzy, across the pale oblong of the door. ‘If all the poets are collected together in some ante-room of paradise, there’ll be a good deal of social discomfort by this time. Marlowe will not be speaking to Dowson, and Emily Brontë will flee at the approach of Chaucer … ’ He grinned, but went on more seriously: ‘I think the only thing poets have in common is a kind of imaginative generosity of heart towards their fellows – and even then one can’t be too sure, with people like Baudelaire and Pope and unpleasant little neurotics like Swinburne. No, there isn’t such a thing as a poet type. And for a very good reason.’
‘Why?’
Cadogan groaned mildly. ‘It’s very nice of you to be so polite, but I do know when I’m being a bore.’
Sally pinched him. ‘Ass,’ she said. ‘I’m interested. Tell me why a poet doesn’t have to be a man who needs a haircut.’
‘Because,’ said Cadogan, uneasily attempting to gauge the the length of his own hair with his left hand, ‘poetry isn’t the outcome of personality. I mean by that that it exists independently of your mind, your habits, your feelings, and everything that goes to make up your personality. The poetic emotion’s impersonal: the Greeks were quite right when they called it inspiration. Therefore, what you’re like personally doesn’t matter a twopenny damn: all that matters is whether you’ve a good receiving-set for the poetic waves. Poetry’s a visitation, coming and going at its own sweet will.’
‘Well, then, what’s it like?’
‘As a matter of fact, I can’t explain it properly because I don’t understand it properly, and I hope I never shall. But it certainly isn’t a question of oh-look-at-the-pretty-roses or oh-how-miserable-I-feel-today. If it were, there’d be forty million poets in England at present. It’s a curious passive sensation. Some people say it’s as if you’ve noticed something for the first time, but I think it’s more as if the thing in question had noticed you for the first time. You feel as if the rose or whatever it is were shining at you. Invariably after the first moment the phrase occurs to you to describe it; and when that’s happened, you snap out of it: all your personality comes rushing back, and you write the Canterbury Tales or Paradise Lost or King Lear according to the kind of person you happen to be. That’s up to you.’
‘And does it happen often?’
In the darkness, Cadogan shrugged. ‘Every day. Every year. There’s no telling if each time, whenever it is, mayn’t be the last.… In the meantime, of course, one gets dull and middle-aged.’
The rain drummed steadily on the roof of the summer-house.
‘I think you ought to be married,’ said Sally after a pause. ‘You aren’t, are you?’
‘No. But what an odd diagnosis. Why should I get married?’
‘You need someone to look after you, and cheer you up when you get miserable.’
‘You may be right,’ said Cadogan, ‘though I doubt it. I’ve only been in love seriously once in my life, and that was ages ago.’
‘Who was she? No,’ said Sally quickly. ‘I shouldn’t be so inquisitive. I don’t expect you want to talk about it.’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t in the least mind talking about it,’ said Cadogan more cheerfully, ‘It’s all over and done with now. Her name was Phyllis Hume, and she was an actress – dark, with large eyes, and a superb figure. But we should have had the hell of a time if we’d got married; we were both furious egoists, and we could only endure each other in the smallest quantities. If we were together for even a week we fought like Jacob and the Angel.’
‘The trouble is,’ said Sally, ‘you don’t know much about women.’
‘No, I don’t,’ Cadogan agreed. ‘But then as I don’t intend to marry it doesn’t much worry me. You, on the other hand – ’
‘Oh – ’
‘A lot of people are going to want to marry you.’
‘Thanks for the compliment, but why – ’
‘Because, Sally Carstairs, you’re immensely rich.’
She sat up. ‘Do you mean I shall still get the money?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘But I didn’t think – anyway, Miss Tardy claimed it. It’ll be hers.’
‘I don’t know.’ Cadogan reflected. ‘In the absence of any contesting relatives – and Mrs Wheatley said there weren’t any – I should think it would be yours. But what I know about the law could be typed on a penny stamp.’
‘Oh,’ said Sally, quite overwhelmed, ‘I shall have to be careful.’
‘Don’t be too careful’
‘How do you mean?’
Cadogan dropped his cigarette on to the floor and trod it out. ‘There’s a German story about a very rich and very beautiful young woman who was surrounded by suitors. But whenever she made up her mind to marry one of them, she was suddenly afraid that he only wanted her for her money, and the fear was so strong that it drove her to break the engagement. Then one day when she was in Italy she met a young merchant, and the two fell in love with one another. Yet even real love wasn’t strong enough to drive out the old obsession, and she decided to test him. She said that she had a fiancé in Germany, that all her own money had gone, and that her fiancé needed ten thousand guilders to set him up in business (ten thousand guilders, she knew, was all the fortune the young merchant possessed). Well, he gave her the money for love of her, and she made him promise to come to Germany on a certain day to see her married. Then she went happily home, because, without knowing it, he’d emerged triumphantly from her test, and she gave orders for the house to be splendidly decorated for his coming. He never came, because she’d tried him too far. He went instead to the wars, and was killed.’
‘And her?’
‘She died an old maid.’
‘She was stupid,’ said Sally, ‘but I see her point of view. Of course I shall never really be able to believe I own all that money. What would you do with it if it was yours?’
‘Go to Italy to escape the English winter,’ Cadogan answered promptly, ‘and lay down a wine-cellar. What will you do?’
‘Get a cottage and a servant for Mummy. Buy a lot of clothes. Buy a car. And go to London and Paris and all over the place … ’ She ran out of ideas, adding with a laugh: ‘But I shall carry on at Lennox’s until it comes true.’
Cadogan sighed. ‘Well, today’s undignified scamper has brought you a fortune. What’s it brought me?’
‘Adventure,’ Sally pointed out with a touch of malice. ‘Excitement. Wasn’t that what you wanted?’
Cadogan, who was feeling rather stiff, got up and began to wander about. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, it was what I wanted. But I don’t want any more of it. For excitement, give me a country walk any day; and I’m inclined to think there’s a good deal more adventure to be had by just opening the curtains in the morning. I dare say that sounds gutless and middle-aged, but after all, I am middle-aged, and there’s no escaping the fact; as a matter of fact, after today I welcome it. Being middle-aged means that you know what matters to you. All this business has been strictly meaningless to me, and from now on I shall conserve my energies, such as they are, for significant things. If ever I’m tempted by posters advertising cruises, I shall whisper “Sharman”; whenever I see headlines about international crooks, I shall murmur “Rosseter”. I eschew Poictesme and Logres now and for ever. In fact, in a couple of days I shall go back to London and start work again – though I’ve a nightmare feeling that this business isn’t over yet.’
‘Oh, golly, I’d almost forgotten about all that.’ As she inhaled, the tip of Sally’s cigarette grew fiery in the darkness. ‘And you haven’t told me what you got out of that doctor.’
‘He said you were the only person who could have killed Miss Tardy.’
/> There was a sudden paralysing silence, and Cadogan cursed himself savagely. But it was too late to recall the words now.
‘What did he mean?’ Sally said in a small voice. ‘He must’ve had some reason for saying that.’
Cadogan explained about the problem of the time of death. ‘But he may have been lying,’ he concluded.
‘Do you think he was?’
He hesitated; then: ‘Frankly, no,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean you’ve got anything to worry about. There must be some way round it, if one only knew. Or he may just have been mistaken.’ (But he didn’t believe it.)
There was another pause. ‘You see, it checks with what Rosseter and the Winkworth woman said,’ he resumed at last. ‘About it having been an impossible murder, and Havering having said at the time that no one there could have done it.’
‘Still, he might have been lying to them.’
‘Why?’
‘Because … Well, perhaps because he did it himself, and knew the real time of death would give him away.’
‘But in that case, why make it impossible for anyone to have done it? After all, he didn’t know at the time that you were downstairs.’
‘He might have been protecting someone.’
Cadogan drew a deep breath. ‘I suppose it isn’t wholly impossible – but in heaven’s name, who? Rosseter? Sharman?’
‘What about the woman? You said he knew her.’
‘Yes, but if you’d seen her … And, anyway, the only time she was ever alone was while Rosseter was in with Miss Tardy. How could she have done it?’
‘They may all have been lying about that.’
‘But again, why? The point is that if you’re going to cover up a murder, your own or someone else’s, you don’t deliberately make the thing look impossible – ’
‘But don’t you see – they may have arranged that story after they knew I was there?’
‘Oh.’ Cadogan was momentarily pulled up short. It certainly appeared possible. But then the salient objection occurred to him. ‘In that case, they wouldn’t have tried to get rid of you.’
‘Yes, because it was safer that you should never hear anything about it at all than that they should have to fall back on this story of me having done it.’
‘I see that, but I still think Havering was telling the truth – ’
He had been so carried away by dialectic that he had not realized that be was methodically destroying her defence. Now a tearful voice from the darkness brought him to a sense of what he was doing.
‘Golly,’ said Sally. ‘I am in a mess.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Cadogan, quite wild with apology. ‘You’re not in any kind of mess. We know you didn’t do it, and it’s only a matter of time till we find out who did.’ He put his hand comfortingly on her leg, and then, recollecting himself, hastily withdrew it.
‘It’s all right, you ass,’ Sally gasped, half laughing and half crying. ‘You’re old enough to be my father.’
‘I am not.’ They both laughed. ‘That’s better,’ he said.
‘Oh, I’m behaving like a baby. Don’t take any notice. I hate women who cry, anyway.’
‘Well, you’re not going to improve matters by powdering your nose in the dark.’
‘Can’t help that. If I look as though I’ve been through a flour-bin when I get outside, you will tell me, won’t you.’
Cadogan promised.
‘I ought to be going home, you know,’ she said. ‘Mummy will be wondering what on earth’s become of me.’
‘No, don’t go yet. Ring her up and stay the evening with us. Anyway, by the time we get inside, Gervase will have found out who the murderer is.’
‘Golly, I wish I thought so. He’s a strange man, isn’t he?’
‘I suppose he is if you’re prepared for the ordinary kind of don. But underneath – well, I shouldn’t like to have him as an enemy. There’s something one can only describe as formidable about him – not on the surface, of course. There he’s engagingly naïve. But if anyone can get to the bottom of this business, he can.’
‘But he doesn’t know any more about it than you do.’
‘He can put it together better. These problems aren’t for my weak intellect.’
‘Still, who do you think did it?’
He considered, recalling faces rather than facts. Rosseter, yellow and Asiatic, with his prominent jaw and professional ease; Sharman, rabbity, muffled, drunk, and contemptible; Miss Winkworth, with her moustache and pig-like eyes; Havering, neurotic, thin, rigid, frightened. A lawyer, a schoolmaster, a fake medium, and a doctor. It was into their hands that a foolish old woman had put her affairs, and with them, the life of her niece. But, of course, there was another – the enigmatic West. Had he ever claimed his inheritance? Was he, perhaps, the controlling force behind the whole affair? Cadogan shook his head.
‘A lot of it’s clear,’ he said aloud. ‘There are three threads to it: the plan to intimidate Miss Tardy; Rosseter’s plan to kill her; and someone else’s plan to do the same thing. The first two came to nothing, and there’s nothing you can get a grip on the third. Honestly, I haven’t the faintest idea. It seems to lie between Havering, Sharman, and the woman, as there was no possibility of anyone else getting into the shop. But beyond that, I simply don’t know. And as you say, it’s always possible they’re all lying, in which case it looks quite hopeless and we might as well give up.’
In the silence which followed, they became aware that the rain had stopped.
‘Well,’ Sally said, ‘let’s go back and see if anything’s happened.’
Without speaking again, they walked across the wet lawn to the college and the lighted window of Fen’s room.
However, they were not destined to arrive there without interruption. In the passage which leads from the gardens to the back quadrangle, and which is lit by a single electric light sunk in the groined roof, they encountered Mr Spode’s plump little form, moving in the same direction as themselves. His face cleared when he saw Cadogan.
‘Oh, there you are, my dear fellow,’ he greeted them. ‘This is luck.’
‘Now, look here, Erwin,’ said Cadogan severely. ‘I don’t know what devilry you’re up to in Oxford, but I consider it very hard that when I come away for a holiday you should follow me about like some ghastly spectre plaguing me to go and lecture the Americans on a subject in which obviously they have no interest.’
The spectre blinked and coughed. ‘It would be a very good tour,’ it murmured. ‘Yale, Harvard, Bryn Mawr … Did you know America was full of beautiful women?’
‘What in heaven’s name has that got to do with it? I will not go and lecture in America … For the Lord’s sake, either go up those stairs or get out of the way and allow us to pass.’
‘Are you going to see Professor Fen?’
‘Where did you think I was going – the Regent’s Park Zoo?’
‘I have the proofs of your new book on me.’
‘And about time, too. Full of misprints, I don’t doubt. Come along up, Erwin. Come and have a drink. We’re on the point of solving an important criminal case.’
Mr Spode, protesting faintly at the social implications of such an intrusion, was hustled up the stairs. They found Fen on the telephone (he made motions requiring silence as they came in), and Wilkes and Mr Hoskins, markedly the better for whisky, lounging in two of the armchairs. A tall standard lamp, glowing softly near the fireplace, was the only illumination. Fen’s pistol lay on the desk, the light falling like a streak of mercury along its short barrel. The atmosphere was subtly different, with a sort of combined tension and satiety, and Cadogan noticed with a shock of astonishment that everyone looked quickly and curiously at Mr Spode as he came in.
‘Yes,’ Fen was saying to the telephone. ‘Yes, Mr Barnaby, as many as you can get. Drunk, are they? Well, provided they haven’t lost the use of their legs, that’s all right. Have you got the address? Yes; all correct. And for the love of God don’t allow them to k
ick up a great rumpus about it. Its not likely to be a game. Yes, we’ll be along, and I promise it’s the last time. All right. Good-bye.’
He turned to greet the newcomers. ‘Well,’ he said amiably. ‘It’s very pleasant to see you all again. You’re just in time for the last act.’
‘I want my dinner,’ Cadogan said.
‘He which hath no stomach to this fight,’ Fen chanted, ‘let him depart. That includes you.’
‘I suppose,’ said Cadogan ungraciously, ‘that you think you know who the murderer is.’
‘It’s very simple,’ said Fen. ‘Sancta simplicitas. Your Mr Spode – ’
But this was too much for Cadogan. ‘Erwin!’ he ex claimed. ‘Erwin the murderer! Don’t talk nonsense.’ He turned to Mr Spode and saw that he was goggling.
‘If you only let me finish,’ said Fen waspishly, ‘you might learn something. I was going to say that your Mr Spode is quite evidently the fifth legatee. The Old Man of the West, you will recall, wore a pale, plum-coloured vest.’ He indicated Mr Spode’s petunia waistcoat.
‘The Missing Link!’ Cadogan shouted excitedly. ‘Erwin is the Missing Link!’
Mr Spode coughed. ‘Hardly very funny, is that, Cadogan?’ he said with dignity. ‘I haven’t the least idea what you people are doing, but when it comes to personal insults – ’
‘Mr Spode,’ Fen interrupted him. ‘You are in intellectual darkness. Your firm was situated in Oxford, wasn’t it, until about a year ago?’
The Moving Toyshop Page 18