'Stop it, stop it, stop it,' she wailed. 'I can't stand it! My mother was murdered yesterday. Have you no sense of respect? None of you?'
Agatha went to her and put an arm round her shoulder. She looked at the others. 'She's right, you know.'
Gregory slowly lowered his fists. 'Sorry. Sorry, my dear. Lost my head. Bad form, in front of you and all that. Forgive me.' He glared at Tommy. 'Count yourself very lucky we're in the presence of ladies. I'm just sorry the days of duelling are over. I advise you to keep out of my way the rest of the time we're here.' He looked at Penny. 'And as for you, young lady, your father should give you a damn good spanking. Still, like father, like daughter, I suppose.' He made a stiff bow to Dorothy and Agatha, picked up his jacket and strode off towards the house.
In a most unladylike gesture, Penny poked out her tongue at the retreating figure.
Tommy looked at the sisters. 'My apologies as well.'
'Me, too,' Penny added.
Tommy offered his arm. 'Shall we go and see if someone will give us a drink?'
'Oo yes, that would be lovely.'
She tucked her arm in his and they strolled off.
It occurred to Agatha that in death her stepmother was capable of stirring up almost as much trouble as when she was alive. But she kept the thought to herself.
* * *
'You were wonderful, Tommy,' Penny said, 'standing up to him like that.'
'Well, thanks to you, got to admit. Couldn't let a girl fight my battles for me. I say, it was jolly sporting of you to stick up for me like that. Thanks awfully.'
'I hate him,' she said simply.
'Gosh, I wish duelling was still carried on, too. I bet I could make rings round him with a sword.'
'Of course you could, Tommy. Or with a pistol.'
He stopped, turned and looked at her. 'Er, there's something I've got to say, old girl.'
'What, Tommy?' Her voice and expression were eager.
'There's something you don't know about me. Fact is, that, well - I'm a Conservative, too.'
Her eyes widened and he hastened to reassure her. 'Oh, I don't mean I'm a member of the party, or anything like that. But I do vote for them. Well, I did once. Well, last time. Well, the only time I've voted, actually.'
Penny blinked. 'I see,' she said slowly, clearly perplexed. 'So, you think they're all right, do you?'
'Well, yes, not bad.'
'Not reactionary relics?'
'Not especially.'
She furrowed her brows in a deep frown. This was obviously a totally new concept, which took some grasping. 'Are you going to do it again?'
'Probably. Haven't really given it a lot of thought yet. Couple of years to go, after all.'
She looked relieved. Two years was an eternity. 'Yes, of course. That's all right then. And I think it's very brave of you to tell me, Tommy. You didn't have to. You could have kept quiet about it and I'd never have known.'
He smiled modestly. It seemed that nothing he could do was wrong. It was a rather pleasant feeling.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Gerry turned away from the window, to which she had hurried when she first heard Gregory's shout of rage and from which she had watched everything that went on. A completely new thought had come to her. Earlier, she had suggested to Timothy that he would be willing to kill to protect Penny. But she had just seen Penny, faced with a perceived threat to someone she cared for, turn in total fury and abandon on the source of that threat - even though the most damage Gregory had been likely to inflict on Tommy was a black eye. How would she have reacted had the threat been much worse, either to Tommy - or to her father?
If Timothy did have a guilty secret, it was quite possible Penny knew about it. If Tommy had one, she was at least more likely than anyone else present to know about it. And if she truly believed Clara had been about to make it public . . .
Gerry had not until now seriously considered Penelope as a suspect. But there was a remorseless single-mindedness about the girl which made Gerry realise that this had been a mistake.
But which of them would she kill for? Her devotion to Tommy was plain. But what could he have done that was so terrible that it had to be covered up at all costs? She came back to her earlier idea about a road accident. A hit and run. Tommy driving - and Penny with him. That was quite feasible. If someone had been killed and Tommy was proved to have been the driver, he would go to prison for a very long time. And for someone like Tommy to be shut up in Dartmoor or somewhere like it for many years would almost be as bad as a death sentence. (Of course, this line of thought put Tommy himself very much back in the picture as a serious suspect; but for the moment, she was concentrating on Penny.)
The trouble was that she just could not see Tommy being so carefree if he had something like that hanging over him. Even with Clara out of the way, there was always the possibility that the hit and run would come to light. Surely any decent person would feel a terrible guilt for the rest of their life: Gerry knew she would. And she still felt Tommy was basically a decent person.
No, of the two men in Penny's life, Timothy was by far the more likely to have something on his conscience - something that he might, in a weak moment, have confided to his daughter. Some professional indiscretion. Jury tampering or the bribing of a witness. Or more likely something not quite so blatant, some breach of the legal rules that the ordinary person might not think was too bad, but which would put a lawyer beyond the pale in the profession. Failing to disclose evidence - something like that.
One important thing to discover was just how much Penny cared for her father's welfare, how far she would be willing to go to protect him. If things were as difficult between them as Stella had said, it might be that she wouldn't care too much if he did come some kind of cropper.
Perhaps she could devise some sort of test to discover just how devoted a daughter Penny really was.
Gerry spent ten minutes in intense thought and at last came up with an idea. She would need two accomplices. Yes, Stella for one, and her mother would do for the other; she would only have to sit and listen. Now, what was the name of that book, and where was it? If she couldn't find it she was sunk - she had actually to have it in her hands at the time. Another fifteen minutes was spent unsuccessfully scouring first her room and then the library. Eventually, she found her mother writing a letter in her boudoir and asked her if she had seen it.
'Oh yes, I'm reading it at the moment,' said the Countess. 'It's by the side of my bed.'
'Oh, terrific! Could you please bring it to the drawing-room straight away?'
'Am I to know why?'
'Eventually, Mummy, but it would take too long to explain now. I've got to find Stella.' She rushed off. Lady Burford gave a little shrug to herself and made her way to her bedroom.
Gerry located Stella in her room, also busily writing. She could not help noticing that the page was headed 'My Ordeal as a Murder Suspect.'
'I want you to do something for me,' Gerry said. 'It's important. Could you bring Penny to the drawing-room in about five or ten minutes?'
'I guess so. Why?'
'It's a long story. Don't let her know I asked you to do it, come into the room without speaking, but do make enough noise for me to know you've arrived. Cough or something. And whatever you hear me saying, don't react at all.'
'But what reason do I give her?'
'Oh, you'll think of something.' She scurried towards the door again.
'Where is she?' Stella asked.
'I don't know,' Gerry called, as she vanished, 'but she can't be far away.'
When Gerry got to the drawing-room, she found Lady Burford sitting meekly on the sofa, the book on her lap. Gerry grabbed it. 'Wonderful! Now I must find a good passage.' She sat down next to her mother and for two or three minutes she flicked frantically through the pages. At last she exclaimed: 'Ah, that'll do. Page one-seven-five.' She closed the book.
'Now what?'
'Tell me the plot of the book.'
'Never mind.'
'I haven't finished it.'
'That doesn't matter. Just talk. And don't stop when you hear somebody coming in.'
'Well, it's rather a hackneyed story. It's about this young girl, Isobel, who is left an orphan when her parents are killed in a rail crash and goes to live with an uncle and aunt, who live in this big, gloomy house in the middle of the Yorkshire Moors.'
The Countess ploughed on until Gerry's sharp ears heard the click of the doorknob, followed by a rather theatrical cough. 'Stop in five seconds,' she whispered.
'Well, the girl doesn't know what to do. But then she has a surprise.' Lady Burford stopped.
Gerry said loudly: 'Oh, Timothy's a totally despicable character. Thoroughly deceitful and slimy.'
There was a few seconds' silence in the room. It was broken, deafeningly, by Penny's voice. 'I heard that!'
They both turned. 'Oh, Penny—' Gerry began, but got no further.
Penny was staring at her, an expression of pure loathing on her face. 'How dare you speak about my father like that! He's a wonderful man! He's — he's practically a saint. You're the despicable one, talking about him like that behind his back. I hate you, I hate you!' There were tears in her eyes.
Gerry jumped to her feet. 'I wasn't talking about your father.'
'Don't lie to me, you sly cat! I heard you say Timothy.'
'I was talking about a character in a book! This book.' She held it out.
'I - I don't believe you.'
'I'll show you.' She opened it and quickly found page one hundred and seventy-five. She handed it to Penny. 'There you are: read the second paragraph.'
Penny took it doubtfully and read aloud: ' "I can't stand Timothy," said Isobel. "You're not alone," Frank replied. "In fact, I don't know anyone who's got a good word to say for him." '
'There you are, you see,' Gerry said. 'I read it some time ago and Mummy's half way through it. We were just talking about it. I said despicable character, not person or man.'
'Oh,' Penny said blankly. The anger had drained from her face. 'I'm sorry. I - I really thought . . .'
'Of course you did. I'd have thought the same. But I'd never talk about your father like that. I don't really know him. But I do know he's got a fine reputation.'
'Yes, yes, he has.'
'It's just a very weird, unfortunate coincidence. Come on, let me get you a glass of sherry.' She moved with Penny to the far side of the room.
Stella came forward to join the Countess. 'Do you have any idea what that was about?' she asked.
'Absolutely none, my dear. But one gets used to that, living with Geraldine.'
'I think I'm beginning to get an inkling,' Stella said.
'I don't intend even to try and understand.' She frowned suddenly.
'Something wrong?'
'Not really. I just didn't know Frank felt like that about Timothy. I thought they got on rather well.'
Chapter Thirty-Four
When Gerry went up to change for dinner, she was feeling very pleased with herself. She had proved one thing beyond doubt: however strained things had been between Penny and Timothy, in reality she idolised him. If looks could have killed, Gerry thought, she would be dead by now, simply for appearing to say something derogatory about him. If she had represented actual danger, would those looks have been converted into action? She was beginning to think it was very possible. The trouble was that her experiment hadn't really got her any further forward. No matter how sure she was that Penny would kill to protect her father, she still couldn't say that she actually had.
Nor had she yet remembered what it was that had struck her as somehow wrong. She'd heard that hidden memories were sometimes recalled in dreams. Before she went to sleep tonight, she must will herself to remember.
She had spoken now to practically everybody - well, with one exception. She hadn't had any really long conversation with Tommy since the murder. She couldn't think it would do any good, and didn't even know what she would ask him. But she supposed that for the sake of completeness she ought at least to go through the motions. There was still about forty-five minutes before dinner. He might be in his room.
She left her own room, went to the east corridor and tapped on his door. There was a cheerful call of 'Come in.'
He was lying on the bed, smoking and reading a new P.G. Wodehouse novel. He could almost be a character in it himself, she thought. There was definitely a touch of the Wooster about him.
He sat up when he saw her and swung long legs onto the floor. 'Hello, Gerry. This is an unexpected pleasure. Take a pew.' He indicated the room's only chair.
'Thanks.' She dropped into it.
'Gasper?'
'Oh yes, please.'
He gave her one and lit it. 'Nothing else to report, by the way.'
'Oh, good. But I didn't want to talk about that now. Tommy, do me a big favour.'
'What's that?'
'Confess to the murder of Clara.'
He grinned. 'Like to oblige, and all that, but just wouldn't be true, and well, second George Washington, me.'
'You think it was Gregory, don't you?'
'Ah, you heard about our little fracas?'
'Saw it through the window. Heard quite a lot. You stood up to him well.'
'Eventually. In a bit of a funk, actually. Bad show all round, of course. Should have kept my mouth shut.'
'Did you have any particular reason for accusing him?'
Tommy wriggled awkwardly. 'Not really, I suppose. Just seems more the type than anyone else.'
'Tommy, do you know anything at all that you didn't tell the police? Anything you could tell me, in confidence.'
There was just a split-second pause before he answered. 'No, not a thing.'
It was enough for Gerry. She sat up and looked at him sharply. 'You do, don't you?'
'No, no, honour bright.'
'Tommy, second George Washington, remember?'
He had gone a little pink. 'Nothing at all about the murder, truly.'
'But something else?'
'Well, perhaps. It's just that, well, I'm pretty sure, no, I know, actually, that someone here's been telling whoppers. But please don't ask me who.'
'I wouldn't tell anybody.'
'It would put you in an impossible position.'
'I could go to the person and ask them straight out.'
'And how would you tell them you knew about it?'
'I wouldn't tell them.'
'They'd know it came from me.'
'Would that matter?'
'It would to me.'
'But we're dealing with murder here.'
'It's got nothing to do with the murder. I'm sure of it. When that's cleared up I'm going to tackle this person myself. But to do it now would only muddy the waters.'
'And suppose the murder isn't cleared up?'
'Then I might have to tackle them anyway. But it will be. Gosh, it's not twenty-four hours yet. Give the rozzers a chance.' He was silent for a moment. 'I'll tell you what. Let me sleep on it. Then in the morning, if I feel up to it, I'll ask the person about it. And if they can't give me a satisfactory explanation, I'll tell you and you can tell Wilkins, if you like.'
'Oh, that would be marvellous. But couldn't you do it tonight?'
'Rather not. It's going to be dashed embarrassing and I want time to work out what I'm going to say. And, er, afterwards, if I am satisfied everything's OK, then that'll be OK with you, OK?'
'OK,' said Gerry.
* * *
On their way down to dinner, Timothy and Tommy met at the top of the stairs. Tommy gave a brief nod and started to hurry on down, but paused, with a slight tinge of alarm, when Timothy said: 'Oh, a word.'
'Er, yes?'
'Penelope's been telling me about what happened outside earlier. How you accused Gregory to his face of being the murderer and stood up to him and refused to withdraw when he wanted to resort to fisticuffs.'
'
Well . . .' Tommy began, but got no further.
'I just wanted to say, congratulations. Showed a lot of courage, moral and physical.'
'Oh.' Tommy was taken aback. Penny had obviously been shamelessly exaggerating. Perhaps he ought to put Timothy right as to what had really happened. But, no. One shouldn't contradict a lady. Not the act of a gentleman. So he just smiled self-deprecatingly. 'It was nothing, really,' he said.
* * *
Gerry woke with a start. For a moment she thought there was somebody in the room. But no. What—
Then it came to her. She remembered what it was that had been wrong. It had worked. She had concentrated on the problem before going to sleep, and it had worked. She sat up and turned on the light. What did it mean? It couldn't really be significant, after all. Could it? She thought hard.
The next moment she knew. She knew who had killed Clara. It had to be. It was the only answer. For seconds she couldn't take it in. There was still no way of getting proof. Except - except that one other person had to know. Somebody had been covering up. Could she somehow persuade that person to tell the truth? Obviously it wouldn't be easy. But she had to try. She looked at the bedside clock. Ten past four. She couldn't go back to sleep, not tonight, with this new knowledge. No, she had to act now and use all her powers to force an admission. She got out of bed, put on her slippers and dressing-gown and left the room.
Chapter Thirty-Five
'Wonder what time Wilkins'll be here?' Lord Burford said moodily.
He was picking at his bacon and eggs and for once The Times lay unopened beside him. It was 8 a.m.
'Extremely soon, I hope,' said the Countess.
' 'Course, he may just tell us he's drawn a blank.'
'Well, at least he'll have to let them all leave and we can get back to something like normal.'
3 The Affair of the Thirty-Nine Cufflinks Page 22