"What's your real name?"
Christopher said quietly, "I don't think we'll go into that. It wouldn't mean anything to you. I'm not an architect. Actually, I'm a deserter from the army."
Just for a moment swift alarm leaped into Molly's eyes.
Christopher saw it. "Yes," he said. "Just like our unknown murderer. I told you I was the only one the specification fitted."
"Don't be stupid," said Molly. "I told you I didn't believe you were the murderer. Go on -tell me about yourself. What made you desert - nerves?"
"Being afraid, you mean? No, curiously enough, I wasn't afraid - not more than anyone else, that is to say. Actually I got a reputation for being rather cool under fire. No, it was something quite different It was - my mother."
"Your mother?"
"Yes - you see, she was killed - in an air raid. Buried. They - they had to dig her out. I don't know what happened to me when I heard about it -1 suppose I went a little mad. I thought, you see, it happened to me. I felt I had to get home quickly and - and dig myself out -1 can't explain - it was all confused." He lowered his head to his hands and spoke in a muffled voice. "I wandered about a long time, looking for her - or for myself -1 don't know which. And then, when my mind cleared up, I was afraid to go back - or to report -1 knew I could never explain. Since then, I've just been - nothing."
He stared at her, his young face hollow with despair.
"You mustn't feel like that," said Molly gently. "You can start again."
"Can one ever do that?"
"Of course - you're quite young."
"Yes, but you see - I've come to the end."
"No," said Molly. "You haven't come to the end, you only think you have. I believe everyone has that feeling once, at least, in their lives - that it's the end, that they can't go on."
"You've had it, haven't you, Molly? You must have - to be able to speak like that."
"Yes."
"What was yours?"
"Mine was just what happened to a lot of people. I was engaged to a young fighter pilot -and he was killed."
"Wasn't there more to it than that?"
"I suppose there was. I'd had a nasty shock when I was younger. I came up against something that was rather cruel and beastly. It predisposed me to think that life was always - horrible. When Jack was killed it just confirmed my belief that the whole of life was cruel and treacherous."
"I know. And then, I suppose," said Christopher, watching her, "Giles came along." "Yes."
He saw the smile, tender, almost shy, that trembled on her mouth. "Giles came -everything felt right and safe and happy - Giles!"
The smile fled from her lips. Her face was suddenly stricken. She shivered as though with cold.
"What's the matter, Molly? What's frightening you? You are frightened, aren't you?"
She nodded.
"And it's something to do with Giles? Something he's said or done?"
"It's not Giles, really. It's that horrible man!"
"What horrible man?" Christopher was surprised. "Paravicini?"
"No, no. Sergeant Trotter."
"Sergeant Trotter?"
"Suggesting things - hinting things - putting horrible thoughts into my mind about Giles -thoughts that I didn't know were there. Oh, I hate him -1 hate him."
Christopher's eyebrows rose in slow surprise.
"Giles? Giles! Yes, of course, he and I are much of an age. He seems to me much older than I am - but I suppose he isn't, really. Yes, Giles might fit the bill equally well. But look here, Molly, that's all nonsense. Giles was down here with you the day that woman was killed in London."
Molly did not answer.
Christopher looked at her sharply. "Wasn't he here?"
Molly spoke breathlessly, the words coming out in an incoherent jumble. "He was out all day - in the car - he went over to the other side of the county about some wire netting in a sale there - at least that's what he said - that's what I thought - until - until -"
"Until what?"
Slowly Molly's hand reached out and traced the date of the Evening Standard that covered a portion of the kitchen table.
Christopher looked at it and said, "London edition, two days ago."
"It was in Giles's pocket when he came back. He - he must have been in London."
Christopher stared. He stared at the paper and he stared at Molly. He pursed up his lips and began to whistle, then checked himself abruptly. It wouldn't do to whistle that tune just now.
Choosing his words very carefully, and avoiding her eye, he said, "How much do you actually - know about Giles?"
"Don't," cried Molly. "Don't! That's just what that beast Trotter said - or hinted. That women often didn't know anything about the men that they married - especially in wartime. They - they just took the man's own account of himself."
That's true enough, I suppose."
"Don't you say it, too! I can't bear it. It's just because we're all in such a state, so worked up. We'd - we'd believe any fantastic suggestion - It's not true! I -"
She stopped. The kitchen door had opened.
Giles came in. There was rather a grim look on his face. "Am I interrupting anything?" he asked.
Christopher slipped from the table. "I'm just taking a few cookery lessons," he said.
"Indeed? Well, look here, Wren, tete-a-tetes aren't very healthy things at the present time. You keep out of the kitchen, do you hear?"
"Oh, but surely-"
"You keep away from my wife, Wren. She's not going to be the next victim."
"That," said Christopher, "is just what I'm worrying about."
If there was significance in the words, Giles did not apparently notice them. He merely turned a rather darker shade of brick-red. "I'll do the worrying," he said. "I can look after my own wife. Get the hell out of here."
Molly said in a clear voice, "Please go, Christopher. Yes - really."
Christopher moved slowly toward the door. "I shan't go very far," he said, and the words were addressed to Molly and held a very definite meaning.
"Will you get out of here?"
Christopher gave a high childish giggle. "Aye, aye, Commander," he said.
The door shut behind him. Giles turned on Molly.
"For God's sake, Molly, haven't you got any sense? Shut in here alone with a dangerous homicidal maniac!"
"He isn't the -" she changed her phrase quickly - "he isn't dangerous. Anyway, I'm on my guard. I can - look after myself."
Giles laughed unpleasantly. "So could Mrs Boyle."
"Oh, Giles, don't."
"Sorry, my dear. But I'm het up. That wretched boy. What you see in him I can't imagine."
Molly said slowly, "I'm sorry for him."
"Sorry for a homicidal lunatic?"
Molly gave him a curious glance. "I could be sorry for a homicidal lunatic," she said.
"Calling him Christopher, too. Since when have you been on Christian-name terms?"
"Oh Giles, don't be ridiculous. Everyone always uses Christian names nowadays. You know they do."
"Even after a couple of days? But perhaps it's more than that. Perhaps you knew Mr Christopher Wren, the phony architect, before he came here? Perhaps you suggested to him that he should come here? Perhaps you cooked it all up between you?"
Molly stared at him. "Giles, have you gone out of your mind? What on earth are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting that Christopher Wren is an old friend, that you're on rather closer terms with him than you'd like me to know."
"Giles, you must be crazy!"
"I suppose you'll stick to it that you never saw him until he walked in here. Rather odd that he should come and stay in an out-of-the-way place like this, isn't it?"
"Is it any odder than that Major Metcalf and - and Mrs Boyle should?"
"Yes-I think it is. I've always read that these murdering loonies had a peculiar fascination for women. Looks as though it were true. How did you get to know him? How long has this been going on?"
"You didn't go up to London to meet him two days ago and fix up to meet here as strangers?"
"You know perfectly well, Giles, I haven't been up to London for weeks."
"Haven't you? That's interesting." He fished a fur-lined glove out of his pocket and held it out.
"That's one of the gloves you were wearing day before yesterday, isn't it? The day I was over at Sailham getting the netting."
"The day you were over at Sailham getting the netting," said Molly, eying him steadily. "Yes, I wore those gloves when I went out."
"You went to the village, you said. If you only went to the village, what is this doing inside that glove?"
Accusingly, he held out a pink bus ticket.
There was a moment's silence.
"You went to London," said Giles.
"All right," said Molly. Her chin shot up. "I went to London."
"To meet this chap Christopher Wren."
"No, not to meet Christopher."
"Then why did you go?"
"Just at the moment, Giles," said Molly, "I'm not going to tell you."
"Meaning you'll give yourself time to think up a good story!"
"I think," said Molly, "that I hate you!"
"I don't hate you," said Giles slowly. "But I almost wish I did. I simply feel that -1 don't know you any more -1 don't know anything about you."
"I feel the same," said Molly. "You - you're just a stranger. A man who lies to me -" "When have I ever lied to you?"
Molly laughed. "Do you think I believed that story of yours about the wire netting? You were in London, too, that day."
"I suppose you saw me there," said Giles. "And you didn't trust me enough -" "Trust you? I'll never trust anyone - ever- again."
Neither of them had noticed the soft opening of the kitchen door. Mr Paravicini gave a little cough.
"So embarrassing," he murmured. "I do hope you young people are not both saying just a little more than you mean. One is so apt to in these lovers' quarrels."
"Lovers' quarrels," said Giles derisively. "That's good."
"Quite so, quite so," said Mr Paravicini. "I know just how you feel. I have been through all this myself when I was a younger man. But what I came to say was that the inspector person is simply insisting that we should all come into the drawing-room. It appears that he has an idea." Mr Paravicini sniggered gently. "The police have a clue - yes, one hears that frequently. But an idea? I very much doubt it. A zealous and painstaking officer, no doubt, our Sergeant Trotter, but not, I think, over-endowed with brains."
"Go on, Giles," said Molly. "I've got the cooking to see to. Sergeant Trotter can do without me."
"Talking of cooking," said Mr Paravicini, skipping nimbly across the kitchen to Molly's side, "have you ever tried chicken livers served on toast that has been thickly spread with foie gras and a very thin rasher of bacon smeared with French mustard?"
"One doesn't see much foie gras nowadays," said Giles, "Come on, Paravicini."
"Shall I stay and assist you, dear lady?"
"You come along to the drawing-room, Paravicini," said Giles.
Mr Paravicini laughed softly.
"Your husband is afraid for you. Quite natural. He doesn't fancy the idea of leaving you alone with me. It is my sadistic tendencies he fears - not my dishonorable ones. I yield to force." He bowed gracefully and kissed the tips of his fingers.
Molly said uncomfortably, "Oh, Mr Paravicini, I'm sure -"
Mr Paravicini shook his head. He said to Giles, "You're very wise, young man. Take no chances. Can I prove to you - or to the inspector for that matter - that I am not a homicidal maniac? No, I cannot. Negatives are such difficult things to prove."
He hummed cheerfully.
Molly flinched. "Please Mr Paravicini - not that horrible tune."
'"Three Blind Mice' - so it was! The tune has got into my head. Now I come to think of it, it is a gruesome little rhyme. Not a nice little rhyme at all. But children like gruesome things. You may have noticed that? That rhyme is very English - the bucolic, cruel English countryside. 'She cut off their tails with a carving-knife.' Of course a child would love that -I could tell you things about children -"
"Please don't," said Molly faintly, "I think you're cruel, too." Her voice rose hysterically. "You laugh and smile - you're like a cat playing with a mouse - playing -"
She began to laugh.
"Steady, Molly," said Giles. "Come along, we'll all go into the drawing-room together. Trotter will be getting impatient. Never mind the cooking. Murder is more important than food."
"I'm not sure that I agree with you," said Mr Paravicini as he followed them with little skipping steps. "The condemned man ate a hearty breakfast - that's what they always say."
Christopher Wren joined them in the hall and received a scowl from Giles. He looked at Molly with a quick, anxious glance, but Molly, her head held high, walked looking straight ahead of her. They marched almost like a procession to the drawing-room door. Mr Paravicini brought up the rear with his little skipping steps.
Sergeant Trotter and Major Metcalf were standing waiting in the drawing-room. The major was looking sulky. Sergeant Trotter was looking flushed and energetic.
"That's right," he said, as they entered. "I wanted you all together. I want to make a certain experiment - and for that I shall require your co-operation."
"Will it take long?" Molly asked. "I'm rather busy in the kitchen. After all, we've got to have a meal sometime."
"Yes," said Trotter. "I appreciate that, Mrs Davis. But, if you'll excuse me, there are more important things than meals! Mrs Boyle, for instance, won't need another meal."
"Really, Sergeant," said Major Metcalf, "that's an extraordinarily tactless way of putting things."
"I'm sorry, Major Metcalf, but I want everyone to cooperate in this." "Have you found your skis, Sergeant Trotter?" asked Molly.
The young man reddened. "No, I have not, Mrs Davis. But I may say I have a very shrewd suspicion who took them. And of why they were taken. I won't say any more at present."
"Please don't," begged Mr Paravicini. "I always think explanations should be kept to the very end - that exciting last chapter, you know."
"This isn't a game, sir."
"Isn't it? Now there I think you're wrong. I think it is a game - to somebody."
"The murderer is enjoying himself," murmured Molly softly.
The others looked at her in astonishment. She flushed.
"I'm only quoting what Sergeant Trotter said to me."
Sergeant Trotter did not look too pleased. "It's all very well, Mr Paravicini, mentioning last chapters and speaking as though this was a mystery thriller," he said. "This is real. This is happening."
"So long," said Christopher Wren, fingering his neck gingerly, "as it doesn't happen to me."
"Now, then," said Major Metcalf. "None of that, young fellow. The sergeant here is going to tell us just what he wants us to do."
Sergeant Trotter cleared his throat. His voice became official.
"I took certain statements from you all a short time ago," he said. "Those statements related to your positions at the time when the murder of Mrs Boyle occurred. Mr Wren and Mr Davis were in their separate bedrooms. Mrs Davis was in the kitchen. Major Metcalf was in the cellar. Mr Paravicini was here in this room -"
He paused and then went on.
"Those are the statements you made. I have no means of checking those statements. They may be true - they may not. To put it quite clearly - four of those statements are true - but one of them is false. Which one?"
He looked from face to face. Nobody spoke.
"Four of you are speaking the truth - one is lying. I have a plan that may help me to discover the liar. And if I discover that one of you lied to me - then I know who the murderer is."
Giles said sharply, "Not necessarily. Someone might have lied -for some other rea
son." "I rather doubt that, Mr Davis."
"But what's the idea, man? You've just said you've no means of checking these statements?"
"No, but supposing everyone was to go through these movements a second time." "Bah," said Major Metcalf disparagingly. "Reconstruction of the crime. Foreign idea."
"Not a reconstruction of the crime, Major Metcalf. A reconstruction of the movements of apparently innocent persons."
"And what do you expect to learn from that?"
"You will forgive me if I don't make that clear just at the moment."
"You want," asked Molly, "a repeat performance?"
"More or less, Mrs Davis."
There was a silence. It was, somehow, an uneasy silence.
It's a trap, thought Molly. It's a trap - but I don't see how -
You might have thought that there were five guilty people in the room, instead of one guilty and four innocent ones. One and all cast doubtful sideways glances at the assured, smiling young man who proposed this innocent-sounding maneuver.
Christopher burst out shrilly, "But I don't see -1 simply can't see - what you can possibly hope to find out - just by making people do the same thing they did before. It seems to me just nonsense!"
"Does it, Mr Wren?"
"Of course," said Giles slowly, "what you say goes, Sergeant. We'll co-operate. Are we all to do exactly what we did before?"
"The same actions will be performed, yes."
A faint ambiguity in the phrase made Major Metcalf look up sharply.
Sergeant Trotter went on.
"Mr Paravicini has told us that he sat at the piano and played a certain tune. Perhaps, Mr Paravicini, you would kindly show us exactly what you did do?"
"But certainly, my dear Sergeant."
Mr Paravicini skipped nimbly across the room to the grand piano and settled himself on the music stool.
"The maestro at the piano will play the signature tune to a murder," he said with a flourish.
He grinned, and with elaborate mannerisms he picked out with one finger the tune of "Three Blind Mice."
He's enjoying himself, thought Molly. He's enjoying himself.
In the big room the soft, muted notes had an almost eerie effect.
"Thank you, Mr Paravicini," said Sergeant Trotter. "That, I take it, is exactly how you played the tune on the - former occasion?"
Three Blind Mice Page 6