Beatrice’s pale, long face changed a little and became Ivan’s; except he didn’t look at her with those pale, blank eyes. Beatrice’s own eyes were dark and clouded and wouldn’t look at anyone.
“No. I was a little impatient. One doesn’t like to delay a dinner party.”
“Everyone else was there?”
“I believe so.” Beatrice stopped abruptly, made another fold and said, “Mrs. Copley can tell you.”
He looked too bored to proceed, but Verity was induced to speak.
“Mr. Trench had not arrived,” she said.
“Trench? Who’s that? He’s not here.”
Rob said, “Galway Trench. Lives on the South Side. He’s always late going places.”
“A cousin of Mrs. Godden’s,” said Beatrice, intent on plaiting.
Jacob Wait sat on the edge of a marble-topped table and looked very tired.
“Did you say it was suicide, Doctor?” he said.
“That’s what I said,” admitted Dr. Blakie cautiously, in the voice he reserved for staff meetings.
“Didn’t really think so, did you?”
The doctor looked at his cigarette for a slow second or two; then he said, as if recognizing futility, “No.”
“Why?”
He didn’t want to talk; he was reluctant and refused to range himself on the side of the police.
“It didn’t seem like a suicide,” he said. “No particular reason.”
“Why did you suggest it, then?”
The doctor merely looked at him quietly, and Jacob Wait did not seem to expect a reply.
“Whoever did it,” he said, “had the sense to wipe his fingerprints off the handle of the knife; there had to be a double set of ’em, too, with a knife like that. It took a good hard thrust. But if it had been suicide the man’s own fingerprints would have been on it.”
Rob had insisted on wiping off her fingerprints. He had also wiped off any earlier fingerprints—his own? Marcia felt a sick horror. … Rob, Rob, it puts Ivan between us forever.
She made herself listen.
“Not much use asking if he had any enemies; relatives never tell.” Jacob Wait’s taciturnity hinted at the reasons why relatives never tell. “Room doesn’t seem to have been disturbed, and there’s no evidence of theft. But we can look into that more certainly later; go over things;—in the desk —all that.”
Beatrice interrupted.
“We never keep valuables about the place,” she said. “Never. There was nothing but the flat silver for anybody to steal.”
He put his hands in his pockets and rattled small things—keys and change; he said to Lieutenant Davies, “Bring in the coat,” and looked as if they were keeping him there against his will. As, indeed, was true.
But bring in the coat. What coat? Ivan’s—was he going to show them … Marcia’s heart turned over, for Lieutenant Davies did bring in a coat, only it was a raincoat, and it was Rob’s raincoat, and probably everyone there knew it.
Rob took a quick step forward, and Verity’s eyes were suddenly bright and terrible.
“Your raincoat, Mr. Copley?” said Jacob Wait, rattling change and keys.
“I believe so. Let me look at it.”
“Initials inside the collar,” said Jacob Wait. “Show it to him.”
“Yes, of course, it’s mine,” said Rob coolly enough.
“Why’d you hang it in the closet?”
“I didn’t.”
“I did that,” said Marcia quickly. “This morning. I forgot to return it.”
Jacob Wait said nothing, just looked at her from below those heavy white lids, and Marcia did not heed the little warning gesture of Rob’s hand but rushed into explanation: “I had been at Copley’s; it was raining. I wore that home and hung it in the closet, intending to return it later.”
Jacob Wait probably heard, but there was no evidence of it. He said to Rob, “You were at the front gate talking to Mrs. Godden at about ten minutes to seven. At seven o’clock a man in a raincoat was seen in the garden, at the east of the house; just outside the french windows. A few moments later there were men’s voices in the library. This—Ancill passed the door; it was closed, but he heard the voices. He is under a strong impression that the caller was you, Mr. Copley.”
Rob.
Great fingers seized on Marcia’s heart and hurt. And it was then that she remembered.
Rob’s letter to her was in the cupboard of the library.
CHAPTER VI
ROB HIMSELF REMAINED COOL.
But he didn’t know about the letter. That terribly incriminating letter, now, furnishing—what was it that was so important?—the motive. There always had to be a motive. Probably nobody ever killed anybody just for the killing—or did they?
“I was not that caller,” Rob said simply and with convincing coolness. “I saw Mrs. Godden a moment at the front gate, yes. I was passing and stopped to speak to her. But I was not in the garden later, and I was not in the library talking to Ivan Godden. If Ancill heard voices, it was someone else. Besides, the raincoat is perfectly dry. If I had worn it in the garden tonight it would be damp.”
“You went right home after you saw Mrs. Godden—that would be about a quarter to seven.”
“No,” said Rob quickly. A little too quickly, as if that promptness were forced. “No. I went for a short walk. Got home just in time to dress for dinner.”
Jacob Wait got off the table and without a word or a look simply walked out of the room.
The lieutenant followed, and the door closed.
It was unexpected and it was unpleasant. It left them with no conclusion, with no hint at all as to his intentions, or thoughts, or purposes.
For a moment no one moved, as there was a feeling that he would open the door and return to resume his questions and come eventually to a sort of stopping place.
But he didn’t. The doctor lighted another cigarette, and the match sputtered sharply; Beatrice’s long fingers stopped plaiting; Rob looked down at Marcia, and Verity said as if she did not know she was speaking:
“So it’s murder!”
She must do something about the letter; now, at once, before the police found it. Beatrice had not spoken; had not accused Marcia. Why? But the pressing and urgent thing just now was to recover Rob’s letter, and the police were, of course, in the library. Something was happening in the hall outside; there were muffled footsteps, and someone called out, “Hold the door open, will you?”
Dr. Blakie listened and went to the hall door, and said to Marcia, “Do you want me to see to—things?”
Things? What things? Beyond him she had an instant’s glimpse of something like a basket, except that it was very large, being carried through the hall. She knew then what he meant, and Beatrice said harshly, “Please do, Graham. Brown and Fielding, tell them.”
He looked uneasy. “They’ll have to do a P.M. probably,” he said. “They may not need to get your permission; I don’t know; haven’t had much to do with police cases—but it’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, you may as well give your consent—not offer any opposition. Right, Marcia?”
She nodded. Beatrice said, “We’ll have to do as they say, I suppose.”
The doctor opened the door further. They heard him say, “Oh—it’s you. They are all in there. Want to go in?”
“Good God, what’s happened? I reached Copley’s about a half an hour ago and was promptly nabbed by a policeman and trundled over here and put there in the dining room along with Ancill and Emma and the Copleys’ servants, staring at each other, with two policemen watching us all like hawks and nobody saying a word.” It was Gally, of course; words tumbling out in a rush. “Then one of ’em got me in a corner and asked me everything I knew. Who I was, where’d I come from, why—wouldn’t tell me a thing and was hipped on time. What’s it all about? And what’s that basket for and the lads in white and—”
His voice stopped as suddenly as if a hand had been put not too gently across his babbling mo
uth.
“Ivan Godden has been murdered,” said Dr. Blakie with neat and impersonal precision, and added as neatly, “Shut up.”
“Murdered? Oh, my God—who did it?”
“Nobody knows. Go on in there. I’ll be back.”
He put Gally deftly inside the door and closed it. Gally was in evening dress, with his ears and his freckles standing out and his stringy hair looking tousled, as if he had been running his hands through it, and his eyes black and excited. In spite of the inquisition he’d complained of, he had managed to get about one drink too many. He said jerkily and not too distinctly, “My God, Marcia, what’s been going on?” and then Lieutenant Davies came in again, talking rapidly about something they were to do.
“… and thus fix the time of the murder,” he said. “It’s only a matter of form. Please be brief. And it’s better to tell the exact truth; we can almost always check statements. Inaccuracies only bother us. Will you begin, Miss Godden.”
Lieutenant Davies had a pad of paper and a pencil in his hands. Gally looked at him, said resentfully, “At it again, are you?” and wavered to a chair. And Marcia must get away; she must go to the library, find that letter. Already the things they had asked Rob were beginning to take on weight, hideous importance. The letter would add so terrifically to it.
Beatrice said tersely, brooding upon the plaits on her knee, “I left the house, I should say, about seven-twenty. I came downstairs; the library door was closed, and I heard nothing from beyond it. I let myself out the front door and went to Mrs. Copley’s.”
“Arriving there when?”
“It’s next door; I suppose a moment or two afterward. Stella—that’s Mrs. Copley’s housemaid—let me in. I left my wrap upstairs; came down and went into the living room. I was the first one there; though Dr. Blakie arrived shortly after. Mrs. Copley came in a moment or two. After about ten minutes I came across the garden way to see what was delaying my sister, Mrs. Godden.”
“The garden way?”
“There’s a gate. It’s a little shorter; I rather imagined she was talking to my brother in the library. That was, I suppose, about thirty-five or forty minutes after seven. I had looked at my watch at seven thirty-five and particularly noted the time, of course, since she was late.”
“And then?”
It was coming. Marcia watched Beatrice’s mouth in a very fascination of horror and couldn’t move or speak or stop the thing.
Beatrice’s fingers made a deliberate, slow fold. Something about her was undecided; she said, finally, not looking at anyone, “My brother was dead. Mrs. Godden was kneeling beside him. We called the doctor …”
She wasn’t going to tell. Beatrice, who had never liked her, still wasn’t going to tell what she had seen and what she thought. A sudden warm rush of gratitude that was almost affection surged over Marcia. After all those years of unremitting hatred, of spiderlike watchfulness, Beatrice was at last and in time of tragic need friendly. Loyal. Even if it was due merely to family pride, it was still loyalty which Marcia hadn’t expected.
She did not then consider the curious and unlikely inconsistency of that premise.
She looked at Beatrice. Beatrice looked up suddenly and met her eyes for one baleful, unguarded flash, and immediately Marcia knew she was wrong.
There was no friendliness in that lightning look. It was knowing, purposeful, gleaming with something that for that one instant pierced the dark cloudiness of her eyes. But it was not friendly. Why, then?
Verity was talking now, crisply. Miss Godden had arrived; yes, about seven-twenty or twenty-five. Dr. Blakie shortly after. She hadn’t noted the exact time. Yes, Rob had come home from a walk about—oh, just after seven, perhaps ten minutes after.
“Can’t you be more exact about time?”
“I’m afraid not. I didn’t know there was going to be a murder.”
Lieutenant Davies’s busy pencil jerked, and he gave her a disapproving glance. Verity, however, was looking very small and feminine and helpless except for her nose, and he let it pass.
“What then?”
“Well, let me see. Stella came to say the appetizers were getting soggy—Rob shouted that he’d be dressed in a minute. It began to look as if dinner might be delayed, so I went to the kitchen to speak to cook about holding up things. It must have been about that time that Miss Godden decided to return for Marcia—Mrs. Godden, that is. Anyway, I was delayed a bit—one of those minor domestic catastrophes. When I came out everybody was gone and Stella was very excited and saying something had happened to Mr. Godden, she didn’t know what, but it must be serious, the way Ancill looked and the way Dr. Blakie and my son hurried away. After a while I came, too. That’s all.”
“That was when?”
“I don’t know exactly. Around seven-thirty, I suppose.”
“Not very definite, Mrs. Copley. You see, the murder had to be done about then—” He hesitated, his pencil hovering above the pad, then said more decisively, “Mrs. Godden.”
“Yes.” She must be very steady; answer just what he asked.
Dr. Blakie came in again, quietly, and beyond him in the hall were sounds, and a glimpse of blue uniforms. A faint acrid odor drifted across the chill mustiness of the room, then he closed the door behind him and Lieutenant Davies said, “When did you last see Mr. Godden alive?”
“About dinnertime. I think it was about a quarter to seven. I remember because I was thinking of Mrs. Copley’s dinner party and how long I had to dress.”
“And what time was it when you found him dead?”
“It was about seven thirty-five. I had looked at my watch before coming downstairs.”
“That’s fifty minutes. During that time did you hear or see anything suspicious? I mean, was there any sound of anyone entering the house—anything like that?”
“No.”
“Did you see Miss Godden leave?”
“She stopped in my room as she was leaving. I heard the lower door close immediately afterward.”
He referred to something already written on the pad of paper, frowned a little, said, “That would be about seven-twenty?”
“I—I believe so.”
“Then you were entirely alone in the house between seven-twenty and seven thirty-five when you—found your husband dead.”
“I—I don’t know. Ancill and the cook were here.”
“How do you know?”
“I assumed it. There was no reason to think either was gone.”
Rob said suddenly, “See here, are we to understand that this is an official inquiry into alibis—”
“I explained that we needed to fix the time of the murder.”
Rob hesitated, certain of his objection but uncertain of his ground, and Lieutenant Davies continued briskly: “I believe we have your statement, Mr. Copley; you passed the house at about ten minutes to seven—just after Mrs. Godden had left her husband alone, that would be—stopped to speak to her, went for a walk, got home at about ten after seven. Anything to add to that?”
“Nothing.”
“Didn’t happen to meet someone you knew during that walk, did you, Mr. Copley?”
Rob hesitated, bit his lip, said abruptly, “No.”
Gally, his eyes faintly glassy, was wriggling in his chair and breathing very hard, as he always did in moments of excitement. The lieutenant looked at him, referred to his pad and said, “Oh, yes, Galway Trench. Left home at half-past six; had a breakdown near Harlem and 59th—arrived here at eight. Well, we have your account, too. Anything to add?”
Gally, breathing harder, had nothing to add.
Lieutenant Davies studied his notes and looked at Graham Blakie.
“How about you, Doctor? We’re trying to fix the time of the murder.”
“It sounds rather like something else,” observed Dr. Blakie, somewhat grimly.
“Take it that way if you want to,” said the lieutenant. “Somebody murdered him, and it wasn’t likely a total stranger.”
; “Look here, Graham,” said Rob hotly, “have they any right to question us like this? I think we ought to have some rights in the matter.”
The doctor looked at the lieutenant, who returned his look steadily, and shrugged. “We can refuse to answer, but I don’t advise it. It only makes things—more difficult. Murder’s murder. You want my story, Lieutenant. Very well, I saw Mr. Godden this morning—brought him back from the hospital —”
“Yeah, we know all that. How about the time between, say, about six-thirty and seven-thirty?”
“I beg your pardon. I left my apartment in town at about six-thirty. Stopped to see a patient in Evanston. Arrived at Copley’s at about—I don’t know exactly. Didn’t Miss Godden say it was about the time she arrived? Anyway, it was a little after seven-thirty—must have been about—oh, a quarter to eight when Ancill came. Mr. Copley and I were having a drink in the small sitting room. He told me what had happened. We found the dead man, as you know. I examined him, found —”
“We got that, too.”
He looked at his sheaf of notes and left them as abruptly as the detective had done.
Verity said something to Graham, and he approached her, and the little shifting left Rob and Marcia unobserved for the moment, for Beatrice, too, moved toward Verity.
Marcia turned in swift desperation to Robert.
“Rob, the letter you wrote me! It—it’s in the library. It was a—a terrible mistake to leave it. But it’s there now— the police—”
“Where?”
“In the cupboard, beside the french doors. The left one —on the east side, I mean. Oh, Rob—”
“They may not let me in. I’ll try.”
The opening door made a sort of silhouette of his tall body and brown hair against the stronger light in the hall. No one stopped him.
But police were still in the library—or were they? Didn’t they immediately search the place and search it minutely? Perhaps they had already found the note; were only biding their time until they had so strong a case that Rob could be formally charged with murder. Or both of them—for there was that motive.
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