Millicent, Countess of Ornum, was always equal to a straight question.
“Poor Mr. Meredith,” she said tangently, “to be killed and to have his work spoilt like that…”
“Ossa on Pelion,” murmured Lord Henry, upon whose education a great deal of money had been expended.
“Too terrible,” said the Countess.
“To be killed by someone he knew,” observed her daughter quietly.
“Eleanor! Surely not.”
“Unless some total stranger happened to walk in, take a dislike to his face, and kill him.”
“But,” protested Millicent Ornum, “he had a nice face. Crinkled but pleasant. Not the sort of face you’d take a sudden dislike to at all.”
Eleanor sighed. “Exactly, Mother.”
“So it wasn’t his face,” drawled William Murton.
“It must have been something else then, what?” said Miles Cremond with the air of one reaching a studied conclusion.
“Yes, Miles,” said Lord Henry kindly. “We think it was.”
“So if Ossy’s dead and the papers are all messed up then no one can prove anything?”
“A veritable nutshell, old chap. There’s just the one small point…”
“What’s that?”
“Who did for Ossy.”
A baffled look came over Miles Cremond’s face. “Yes, of course.”
“It’s no use our pretending,” said Cousin Gertrude bluntly, “that it doesn’t make any difference to any of us whether Harry here is Earl of Ornum because it does.” She looked round the table. “To every single one of us.”
There was a chorus of protest.
“Yes, it does,” insisted Gertrude. “Henry here’ll kill himself one day in that sports car of his. Always trying to make it go faster and faster.”
“I say, Cousin Gertrude, steady on.”
“That means Miles would come in to the title and you can’t tell me that wouldn’t please Laura.”
Laura Cremond’s thin face went a sudden pink. “Really, Gertrude, I don’t think that remark is in the best of taste.”
“Neither is murder.”
“Are you suggesting that Miles and I killed Mr. Meredith?”
Gertrude Cremond was equal to a frontal attack.
Not for nothing had she stood foursquare against the opposing centre forward on the hockey field. “No,” she said, “but you were both late for dinner on Friday evening, weren’t you?”
“Well, I must say that sounds remarkably like an insinuation to me.”
“Merely an observation,” remarked Cousin Gertrude, unperturbed. “Why were you both so late?”
“Miles went for a walk and I waited for him to get back before I came down. That’s why.”
“Did you go for a walk, Miles?”
“What? Oh, me? Yes, rather.”
“Where?”
“Where? Oh—in the Park, you know. Actually I went round the ha ha. To get in training for the match, what? No exercise to speak of in Town, don’t you know.”
“Never touch it myself,” said William Murton, looking with close interest from one flushed face to the next.
“Touch what?” said Miles.
“Exercise.” William patted his tummy. “Went to seed early myself. Less trouble.”
Cousin Gertrude rounded on him as if he’d been a wing half coming up fast on the outside. “There’s no need for you to talk, William. You’d miss your uncle Harry here more than anyone.”
“True.”
“You may not touch exercise,” she went on tartly, “but you’re certainly not above touching him for money when you need it.”
“Granted.” He made a mock bow in her direction. “But you will be pleased to hear I’ve turned over a new leaf. My… er… touching days are gone.”
This produced total silence. The Earl and his son exchanged a quick glance.
“Truly,” said William. “I haven’t asked you for a loan this trip, Uncle Harry, now have I?”
“Not yet,” said that peer cautiously.
Cousin Gertrude was inexorable. “Moreover,” she went on, “there’s the Judge taking to walking about again. I hear that Aunt Alice saw him on Friday evening. You all know what that means.”
There was an immediate chorus from Eleanor, Henry, Miles, and William. “Someone’s going to go!”
Laura Cremond turned on her husband. “Really, Miles…”
“Sorry, dear, learnt the responses as a child.”
“You are now a grown-up.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I don’t think,” said Gertrude astringently, “that Laura quite appreciates that the Judge being seen always means that someone is going to die.”
“He’s dead,” insisted Laura. “You’ve all been saying so.”
“Not Ossy. He doesn’t count. It’s got to be a member of the family,” declared Gertrude.
“It’s a family legend,” said William Murton, adding ironically, “You needn’t worry, Laura. It only applies to blood relations.”
“Like the two black owls and the Duke of Dorset in Zulieka Dobson,” explained Lord Henry swiftly. Laura was looking cross.
“And the dying gooseberry bush in the walls of Kilravock Castle,” added Lady Eleanor.
“And just as true,” insisted Miss Cremond.
“Never mind, Cousin Gertrude,” said Lord Henry helpfully. “Perhaps it’s one of the great-aunts. After all, they are knocking ninety and they can’t live forever, you know.”
“Talking of the aunts,” said Eleanor suddenly, “where are they tonight?”
“They’ve taken umbrage,” said her brother.
“Why?”
“Mother used Great Aunt Maude’s hearing aid as a pepper pot last night.”
“No…”
“It’s a fact,” said Lord Henry. “Poor old Maude. She stood it on the table all the better to hear with and Mother started shaking it all over her soup.”
“It is a bit like one, you know,” murmured Millicent Ornum defensively, “until you look at it closely.”
But Cousin Gertrude had not done.
Heated and anxious, she said, “Don’t you all realise that somebody we know killed poor Ossy?”
There was silence.
“Someone here in Ornum House,” she said. “Perhaps someone in this very room now.”
The Earl of Ornum cleared his throat, and said in a low rumble, “ ’Fraid you’re probably right, Gertrude.”
Laura Cremond said spitefully, “What about you, Gertrude? You’ve got more to lose than any of us, haven’t you?”
10
« ^ »
Monday morning dawned with its customary inevitability.
With it came the news that there had been a road traffic accident at Tappett’s Corner on the main Berebury to Luston Road the night before. Superintendent Leeyes was not pleased about this.
“A ruddy great pile-up,” he moaned, flinging down the report in front of Inspector Sloan as soon as he arrived on duty. “One woman driver who wouldn’t have been safe out with a pram, one commercial vehicle with no business to be on the road at all on a Sunday…”
Inspector Sloan picked up the paper and began to read.
“And a family saloon,” said Leeyes, “driven by two old women.”
The report said that it had been driven by a husband with his wife sitting beside him, but Sloan knew what the Superintendent meant. He had been speaking figuratively. There were some real figures, too.
Two people had been taken to hospital and three vehicles to the suspect garage.
“If there’s anybody in my Division getting a kickback out of this, Sloan,” threatened Leeyes, “there’s going to be real trouble.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked at the report. “It is the nearest garage to Tappett’s Corner.”
“I know that.”
“And they’re the only people with heavy lifting gear for this van.”
“I know that, too, and it doesn’t help, does it?”
> “No, sir.”
It didn’t.
If there was something wrong there was something wrong and explanations were neither here nor there.
“This other business, Sloan…” Only a true policeman, jealous in honour, would have such an order of priority. “How far have you got? We can’t hang on to a case like this, you know.”
“Some of the way, sir.” Sloan knew Superintendent Leeyes wouldn’t want anyone else here while he was worried about Inspector Harpe’s men. “I think the deceased was killed in the Library between four o’clock and half-past five on Friday afternoon.”
Leeyes grunted.
“He was last seen alive,” went on Sloan, “by Lady Eleanor, the Earl’s daughter, just before four and by the butler, Dillow, immediately after that.”
“But by five-thirty…”
“By five-thirty. That was when the Vicar, Mr. Walter Ames, arrived at Ornum House in response to a message—”
“A message?”
“A message to the effect that his friend, Mr. Meredith, had made an important discovery—”
“What!”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“What sort of discovery?”
“We don’t know, sir. Yet. All we know is that he telephoned the Vicar’s house during that afternoon and left a message with the Vicar’s wife asking Mr. Ames to step around to the house as soon as he could.” Sloan paused. “I think that by the time he got there Mr. Meredith was dead.”
“Someone else knew about his discovery?”
“Yes, sir. I think so.” He coughed. “The telephone at Ornum House is somewhat public, sir. It’s in the entrance hall. Anyone could have heard him.”
“Someone did?”
“I’m very much afraid so, sir.”
Leeyes grunted again. “Go on.”
“There are bloodstains at the far end of the last bay in the Library. I’m having them analysed this morning. He could well have been killed there and left there until the opportunity arose to take his body to the armoury.”
“Without being seen?”
“It was a chance that would have to be taken. I should not imagine that the Library was used all that often and the bloodstains are at the far end of the last bay. In fact Mr. Ames did look in the Library for the deceased and called out his name—but when he did not appear or answer he went away.”
“Beyond call,” observed Leeyes succinctly, “and recall.”
“Exactly, sir. Then there are the Muniments—”
“Documents,” supplied Leeyes, “kept as evidence of rights or privilege.”
“Thank you, sir. I thought they might be. Well, at some time after five-thirty on Friday afternoon when the Vicar looked in the Muniments Room and noticed nothing amiss, and at some time before I got there myself yesterday afternoon, some person or persons unknown played havoc with them.”
The Superintendent’s eyebrows shot up. “Ho ho!”
“Yes, sir. All we know at present about who did it was that they were wearing a size six and a half lady’s shoe.”
“A woman, eh?”
“Someone wearing a lady’s shoe,” said Sloan more precisely. “There are three ladies in the house who take that size in footwear. Mrs. Laura Cremond, Miss Gertrude Cremond, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Morley.” He paused. “It’s a popular size.”
The Superintendent stroked his chin. “So there was something that mattered in the Muniments Room.”
“Something they thought mattered,” Sloan corrected him obliquely.
“Motive?”
“Perhaps, sir,” said Sloan, and told him about the threatened earldom.
“Ah, Sloan, kind hearts may be more than coronets, but when it comes to the crunch…”
“Quite so, sir. If it… er… should turn out to be that sort of crunch then there are a fair number of people with a vested interest in the status quo, I agree, but…”
“But what?”
“That particular discovery was relatively old hat by last Friday.”
“How relatively?”
“The immediate family and the Steward had known all about it for nearly a week.”
“Stewards,” interrupted the Superintendent didactically, “are notoriously untrustworthy.”
“Unjust,” murmured Sloan, whose Sunday schooling had been impeccable. “I don’t know if this one is or not yet. Anyway, if the Ornums and their Steward had known about it for so long, what I don’t quite see is why the deceased should suddenly get excited on Friday afternoon. If it’s the same discovery, that is.”
“How soon did the nephews get to hear about it?” The Superintendent’s own Theory of Relativity was more simply stated than Einstein’s.
The nearer the degree of relationship, the greater the likelihood of murder.
“Miles Cremond and his wife were told when they arrived on Thursday for the weekend.”
“The weekend?” echoed Leeyes. “Thursday?” Police weekends began at noon on Saturdays.
“Yes, sir. He works in London.”
“That explains it. What at?”
“For a shipping company,” said Sloan carefully, “as a figure head, I should imagine.”
“No head for figures though?”
“I shouldn’t think he would go much beyond a batting average, sir. He’s with the Pedes Line.”
“They’re in deep water,” said Leeyes, unconsciously apposite. “Everyone knows that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the other nephew? The artist one.”
“I don’t know when he found out, sir.” Sloan paused. “He’s a bit of a puzzle.”
“I’m tired of crazy mixed-up kids, Sloan.”
“I don’t quite know what to make of him, sir,” he said seriously. “I think he could well be one of those. I’ve put in some enquiries about both nephews to London.”
“Good. The deceased’s sister,” went on Leeyes. “Has she turned up yet?”
Sloan shook his head. “There’s no sign of her. The postmistress thinks she’s visiting a friend, but doesn’t know for sure. Crosby’s been round the outside of the house to make certain she’s not hanging in the woodshed or anything like that, but I hardly like to ask for a warrant to break in for a better look.”
Superintendent Leeyes’ grunt indicated that he wouldn’t get one if he asked.
“What now, Sloan? I can’t keep Headquarters out of the case forever.”
“I’m just waiting for the post-mortem report on the deceased from Dr. Dabbe, and then I’m going back to Ornum House.”
“Gadzooks,” observed the Superintendent sardonically, “strapping his vitals, is he?”
Detective Constable Crosby was in Sloan’s office struggling with the small print in the Peerage. “A telephone message from London, sir. Just come through.”
“The nephews?”
Crosby shook his head. “Firm of solicitors, name of Oaten. Oaten and Cossington—representing the Earl of Ornum. The senior partner is on his way down now.”
Sloan was not surprised. He pointed to the book. “Have you got the succession sorted out?”
“Yes, sir. Sir, did you know that once everyone was either an earl or a churl?” Crosby had obviously begun at the very beginning. “They were all divided into those two groups.”
“People have always been divided into two groups, Constable, and the sooner you get that into your head the better.” At school he had learnt about patricians and plebeians, as a young man about proletarians and… proletarians and… Sloan couldn’t think now who the others had been, but he could still remember getting very excited about it at the time. It had seemed so important. Now that he was older he knew the grouping was simpler than that.
Oneself versus The Rest.
“And,” went on Crosby industriously, “they made men Earls when they didn’t want to make them Marquesses or Dukes.”
“You don’t say,” remarked Sloan. “Status rearing its ugly head again.”
“Beg par
don, sir?”
“Nothing. The Ornums…”
“Yes, sir. It’s all down here.” He paused. “Everything.”
“Everything?”
“Well, sir, they don’t half say what they mean.”
Sloan regarded the heavy tome with respect. That wasn’t always the case with big books. “Good.”
“Very clear,” said Crosby primly.
“Oh?”
The constable squinted down at the page and read aloud, “ ‘The succession is limited to heirs of the body male,’ sir, that’s what it says here.”
“Indeed,” said Sloan gravely.
“And something about Lords of Creation.”
“Are you sure?”
Crosby took another look. “Lords of the First Creation.”
“Ornum isn’t one of those, surely?” Not with a Norman Keep and a Tudor Great Hall.
“No, sir, I don’t think so. Henry the Eighth gave them extra land after some battle or other…”
“England, Home, and Booty,” murmured Sloan.
“And they seem to have been Hereditary Beacon Keepers to the Crown for the County of Calleshire since the reign of Queen Elizabeth the First.”
“Very useful thing to know,” agreed Sloan, “but what about now?”
“Lord Henry inherits.”
“And if anything happens to Lord Henry?”
“The Honourable Miles Cremond, eldest son of the younger brother of the twelfth Earl, is next in succession.”
“I thought he might be,” said Sloan.
“I can’t find Miss Gertrude Cremond anywhere…”
“Too far from the main line.”
“But the two old ladies are here. Daughters of the eleventh Earl.”
“That’s going back a bit.”
“And I’ve found William Murton. At least”—Crosby put a large forefinger on a tiny line of print—“I think so. It says here after Lady Elizabeth… ‘married W. Murton of Ornum, one s.’ ”
“That,” said Sloan solemnly, “is what happens when you run away with your groom. We will make a point of seeing William Murton again very soon. Now, this business of the Earl not being the Earl…”
Crosby slapped the book. “Not here… There’s just a bit about their escutcheon…”
“No blot?” Deadpan.
“Not yet, sir.” Crosby grinned. “There’s quite a long piece about their coat of arms, but I didn’t think you’d want to go into that.”
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