Root of All Evil

by E. X. Ferrars

  “There’s just one thing I’d like to add to that,” Theobald said, “and that’s the fact that whoever really forged the cheques was in Margot Weldon’s power, and it was because of that that I mentioned blackmail a moment ago. She may have been bleeding him white ever since, which would supply a motive for her murder.”

  To his surprise, as he left the dining-room, Andrew found that he had enjoyed his talk with the chief superintendent. Possibly that indicated callousness. This was not a time to enjoy anything at all. But he could not help experiencing some degree of pleasure at conversing with a man whose mind seemed to be so singularly in tune with his own. He had been susceptible to that kind of pleasure for most of his life, whether it came when he was in contact with a first-year student or a long-retired, white-haired emeritus professor, more aged, more withdrawn from the active world than he was himself. However, before he left the room he was questioned carefully as to his whereabouts at the time of both murders and he could not produce a satisfactory alibi for either. Felicity, who might have been able to say that he had been with her at the time when the police believed Margot Weldon had been murdered, was unable to speak up for him, and all that he could say about what he had been doing when she herself had probably been killed was that he had nodded off to sleep in a chair by the fire.

  He told Theobald of having seen Margot Weldon at Paddington, then in the train to Braden and then again at Felicity’s gate on Thursday afternoon, and notes were taken of what he said and he was thanked for being so helpful, then he was allowed to leave. As he went to the drawing-room he paused and briefly greeted Derek Silvester, who was being ushered into the dining-room by Jack Prestbury, then the door closed on Derek and Andrew went on to the other room.

  He found that besides Derek, Frances, Quentin, Georgina and Patricia had arrived. He sensed that they had been engaged in a fierce discussion before he appeared, which was broken off abruptly as he came into the room, leaving them all sitting awkwardly silent. They all looked at him questioningly, as if they expected him to have something to tell them, but all he could think of saying was, “Good morning.”

  It took Frances a moment to have the presence of mind to say, “It’s terrible, just terrible, isn’t it? I still can’t really believe it.”

  “Professor Basnett, is it true about the diamonds?” Georgina demanded.

  “That they’ve been stolen?” he said. “Apparently.”

  “You see!” she cried, looking round on the others as if she had scored a point. “Didn’t I always say she ought to keep them in the bank? Didn’t I always say it was crazy to keep them here?”

  “We all said that,” Quentin said. “You weren’t the only genius among us.”

  “But she hadn’t left them to you,” Georgina said. “You didn’t really care what happened to them.”

  “And now they’re all you care about,” he said. “You don’t really care that she’s been murdered.”

  “Do you?” she said. “Haven’t you been saying for the last year or two that she couldn’t live much longer and how useful it would be if she didn’t?”

  “I never said anything of the kind,” he said. “Anyway, not seriously. We all said that kind of thing. And none of us dreamt that the poor old thing would be murdered.”

  “Children, children!” Frances cried. “Don’t talk like that! Don’t quarrel now of all times.”

  “Do they quarrel much?” Patricia asked in a tone of calm interest. “I’ve never thought of Quentin as quarrelsome.”

  “They’ve quarrelled all their lives,” Frances said. “I’m sure I don’t know why. Isn’t there some phrase for it psychologists use—sibling something or other? I know it somehow makes one feel it’s all the parents’ fault. Psychologists always do that. They blame everything on the parents instead of ever saying the children were just born like that. I can’t think of anything Derek or I ever did to make the two of them so quarrelsome. I mean, we always treated the two of them just the same, we never favoured one more than the other.”

  “Darling Ma, don’t you understand Georgina and I are devoted to one another?” Quentin said. “Our quarrelling is just the way we show it.”

  “You’ve never quarrelled with me,” Patricia said, “so perhaps you aren’t as devoted to me as you say.” It was said lightly, but her eyes were serious.

  “Balls!” Georgina said. “He’s so devoted to me that if I’m murdered tonight he’ll only think that that will double his legacy, as I suppose it would. I don’t understand the legal side of those things. Professor Basnett, do you think the diamonds were insured, and if they were, will I get the insurance money or will that go into the estate as a whole?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it,” Andrew answered. “I imagine they were insured, but whether for what they’re worth now or only years ago, when I suppose Felicity took out the policy, I couldn’t say. Their value, of course, will have increased immensely in recent years.” He was wondering where Agnes was and what she was doing.

  “Oh dear, isn’t that awful?” Georgina said. “I mean, not to know. It isn’t that I care—I mean, just about the money—I do care about Felicity. I did love her, though she never believed I did. But not knowing where one is, that’s awful.”

  “The money’s all you care about, that’s obvious,” Quentin said. “And you can be glad Felicity died last night, because if she’d lived till today, she’d have changed her will, leaving everything to Agnes, and you might not have got your beloved diamonds.”

  “Children, children!” Frances said hopelessly.

  “In the circumstances, isn’t it lucky you all have alibis for yesterday evening?” Patricia said. For some reason at that moment, hearing her quiet voice, Andrew became convinced that she would never marry Quentin. She had withdrawn herself from the family group, as if she had just discovered that she wanted to be no part of it. “We were all together through the evening and the police won’t be able to argue with that.”

  “And what about the evening before when Margot was killed?” Georgina asked. “You and Quentin went out for a walk, didn’t you? Are you going to be able to prove where you were?”

  “As a matter of fact, we didn’t go out,” Quentin said. “We started out, but the gale was so fierce, we turned back. Tricia went to her room to lie down—she had a headache—and I did some work I’d brought down with me and stayed in my room till Felicity rang up about Margot and her peculiar letter. So neither of us has an alibi for Thursday evening and I’m curious if you have, Georgina. Just what were you doing? Mother and Father were out playing bridge—if they really were. Darling Ma, what were you doing on Thursday evening? Were you really playing bridge with the Blakes?”

  “I don’t know how you can talk of that, making a joke of everything,” Frances said. “Of course we were.”

  “Even if you weren’t, you know, you won’t have to give evidence against one another,” Quentin said. “Husbands and wives don’t have to. But what were you doing, Georgina?”

  “As a matter of fact, I spent a good deal of the evening having a nice long telephone call to Marcus,” she said. “I had the sitting room to myself, so I thought I could do it comfortably without being interrupted. And you can check with him that I did it.”

  “You mean you rang up that awful young man you’ve got tangled up with,” Frances said, “and talked to him on our telephone, putting it on our bill, for half the evening? Oh, you children, when are you going to become a little responsible?”

  “Well, it wasn’t for quite as long as that,” Georgina said, “but for quite a time. I should think it would give me a perfect alibi.”

  “Except that who’s going to believe a word he says?” Quentin asked. “A little perjury wouldn’t worry someone like him.”

  “Anyway, I don’t see that it matters,” Georgina said. “We’ve all got alibis for yesterday evening, when Felicity, whom we’ve all got motives for wanting dead, was killed. And though we’ve none of us got much in
the way of alibis for Thursday evening, when Margot was killed, none of us has a motive for murdering her. So that’s all right.”

  The door opened and Agnes came in. She was carrying a tray with cups and a pot of coffee on it. Derek Silvester followed her into the room and behind him came Jack Prestbury, who requested Mrs. Silvester to come to the dining-room for a few words with Chief Superintendent Theobald. As she went she looked flustered and scared, but that, Andrew thought, was how she would look if a custard that she was making had curdled or a towel had not been returned by the laundry.

  Agnes put the tray down and said, “I thought we’d all like coffee.”

  “Excellent,” Derek said. “Just what I was wanting.”

  “They’re making a terrible mess in the kitchen,” she said. “Spreading that powder they use everywhere, looking for fingerprints. And of course they’re doing it in Felicity’s room and up in Laycock’s room too. I suppose it’s inevitable that they should suspect him.”

  She started pouring out the coffee.

  “Why, don’t you believe they should?” Quentin asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she answered. “Just a feeling I’ve got about him. I realize, of course, he must have been hiding something, but I liked him, you see. He helped me a great deal.” She began handing the cups round. “He was always courteous and good-tempered.”

  “Crooks often are, I imagine,” Quentin said. “I should say good manners are a con-man’s stock-in-trade.”

  “But he wasn’t just a con-man,” Georgina said. “He was a thief and a murderer.”

  “You’ve no evidence he was either,” Derek said. “All you really know against him is that he took it into his head to disappear at a very unfortunate time. You shouldn’t throw accusations like that around when you don’t actually know anything about the matter.”

  Agnes gave him a grateful smile. “I’m glad you feel like that, Derek. Things do look so black against him, it makes me want to take his side. I think he may have done something silly and irresponsible, but I can’t believe it’s anything really bad.”

  “I wish we knew a little more about him,” Georgina said. “Since Felicity engaged him all by herself, he’s just a blank to us.”

  “He’s at least got an alibi for the time of Margot Weldon’s murder,” Andrew said. “He was with his girlfriend, a Miss Bartlemy.”

  “Do the police believe that?” she asked.

  “You can’t expect me to read their minds,” he answered.

  Yet as he said it he thought how near he and Theobald seemed to have come to being able to do just that. It would be interesting to see if it continued. Probably it would not, he thought with some regret, for there would be a good deal of fascination in establishing a telepathic relationship with a senior detective engaged in a murder inquiry.

  After Frances, Quentin was called into the dining-room to be questioned, and after him Georgina. It seemed to be felt that there was no need to question Patricia by herself, for after Georgina returned to the drawing-room, Theobald followed her in.

  A few minutes before that, Arthur Little, Felicity’s solicitor, had arrived. He was a small man of about fifty with a smooth, oval face, neat features and a high-domed, smoothly bald head. His voice was low but very distinct. He appeared to have had no knowledge of the murder until he arrived at the house and found the entrance blocked by police cars. He stated in the drawing-room that he was appalled, astonished, grieved and eager to give any assistance that was in his power. Then he accepted one of the drinks which by then had replaced the coffee that Agnes had brought in earlier and fastened a bright, steady stare on Andrew, as if he found him the person there whose presence most needed explaining.

  When Theobald and Andrew had been introduced to him the solicitor said, “Mrs. Silvester asked me yesterday to come here this morning. She told me she intended to change her will, but she didn’t tell me what she wanted to do. I advised her against it. I said that I thought her existing will was eminently sensible, that it had been the result of careful thought and that it was fair to everyone concerned. She only said, ‘You don’t know what I know.’ Naturally, as we talked, I never dreamt that she would be dead by morning. I didn’t even know she was dead till I arrived here some minutes ago. A terrible thing. I still haven’t really taken it in.

  “I read in The Times about that affair the day before, but except for reflecting that the road across the common where the body of that unfortunate woman was found was near to Mrs. Silvester’s house, I never thought of connecting it with her. I assumed a sexual assault perhaps. But I gather you do connect the two events, so a sexual assault, I presume, does not come into the picture.”

  Theobald shook his head. “That’s something we can leave out. But I’ve been trying to find out something about Margot Weldon which I believe is important, yet we seem to be up against a blank wall. Perhaps you can help us, Mr. Little. Cast your mind back several years and see if you can remember anything about how Miss Weldon got her job with Mrs. Silvester. For instance, did she ever tell you who recommended the woman to her?”

  The little lawyer passed a hand over his high, smooth forehead, as if there were still hair there which he was brushing back from his brow.

  “I’m sure she never mentioned it to me,” he said. “She sometimes did talk over that sort of thing with me. I remember she told me that Dr. and Mrs. Silvester were anxious that she should move into a home but that she was refusing to contemplate that. Until then, she’d had a couple to look after the house for her and she was still very active herself and didn’t need any personal service, but they’d decided to retire and later she told me she’d engaged a housekeeper-companion to take their place and she seemed very satisfied with the way it was working out. But then of course, there came the trouble of that woman’s dishonesty—I imagine you’ve been told about that—how she forged some cheques of Mrs. Silvester’s and was dismissed. Mrs. Silvester was very anxious that no other action should be taken and again the question came up of whether it might not be best for her to move into a home. But she was adamant against it and then she was fortunate enough to engage Mrs. Cavell, which, as we all know, has turned out admirably for several years.”

  “Concerning those forgeries,” Theobald said, “have you ever had any doubts that they were the work of Miss Weldon?”

  “Why, no, she admitted it herself, I believe,” Arthur Little said. “There was no possible doubt of it.”

  “I asked that,” Theobald said, turning so that he could take a quick look round the whole room, “because of something I told Professor Basnett, but have not yet told anyone else. The letter that was found in Miss Weldon’s handbag, confessing to Mrs. Silvester’s murder, is a forgery. Compared with some other specimens of her writing which were found in her handbag and which were certainly hers, there’s no doubt of it. She didn’t write that letter. So the question naturally arises, did she forge the cheques? Have we two forgers at work here? Or was there only one who forged those cheques and only got her to cash them at the bank, but then found himself in her power and that he’d got to pay blackmail to keep her silent? She’d remained in contact with someone in these parts, we can be fairly sure, or why did she come down to Braden on Thursday? And she nearly made up her mind to come to see Mrs. Silvester on Thursday afternoon. Suppose that was to tell her who the real forger had been, perhaps because he was getting behindhand with his payments. But unfortunately for her, she changed her mind and we may guess made one more attempt to come to terms with her victim, a fatal blunder which resulted in her death.” He paused. “You understand, this is all fumbling in the dark. It’s no more than exploring possibilities. But I thought I’d put this very hypothetical case to you in case it somehow jogs a memory in any of you. Because we want very much to find out all we can about Margot Weldon. We have her address. She lived in a bed-sitting-room in Fulham and worked as a receptionist in a small private hotel. But that’s all we know about her.”

  There was a silenc
e. There was no sign of response on any of the faces which his swiftly moving gaze surveyed. With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he turned to the door. At that moment Frances exclaimed, “D’you know, it’s an extraordinary thing, but it’s just come back to me. I believe I was the person who recommended Margot to Felicity.”

  Her husband turned on her. “That’s nonsense! You never knew anything about her.”

  “No, that’s quite true, I didn’t,” Frances said. “And I quite forgot all about it when we discussed it. But I remember a talk I had with Felicity about that time. She was in a very bad humour. She said you and I were trying to hustle her into a home just to get rid of her, and she said people who went to live in homes nearly always died a few months after they got there. I don’t know where she got that idea, but she believed it. And so to calm her down I told her I’d heard of a woman who might come to live with her and I’d see if I could find her address, because I thought I’d made a note of it somewhere, in case it should be useful, though I couldn’t remember for sure if I’d really done it or only meant to.”

  “That’s all nonsense.” Derek raised his voice as if to drown anything more that she might have to say. “You’re muddled. You always get muddled. You’re thinking of Agnes. We found Agnes for her, but we never knew anything about how she got hold of the Weldon woman.”

  “But I remember it perfectly clearly now,” Frances insisted, “though I don’t suppose I’ve thought about it for years. I was so worried at the way Felicity thought going into a home would kill her and that that was what you and I were hoping for, that I know I went searching through the drawers of my writing table to see if I could find a bit of paper where I’d noted down Margot’s name and address in case it should come in useful. And I suppose I found it, because of course Felicity took Margot on, though I can’t be definite about it. I’ve a dreadful memory.”

  “The odd thing is, Dr. Silvester,” Andrew said, “that your mother herself was convinced it was you who recommended Margot Weldon to her. She told you so yesterday. She’d an idea Miss Weldon might have been a patient of yours.”