‘What makes everybody think I am a detective?’ he asked, trying to keep the chagrin from his voice.
‘The whisper has gone through the prairie grass,’ she told him lightly. ‘And your lengthy interview with the superintendent has been giving it close support.’
‘Perhaps the superintendent spent rather a long time with me because he wasn’t altogether satisfied with my story,’ he said carefully.
‘Perhaps,’ she said in disbelief.
Her handbag was on the chair beside her. She took a cigarette from a monogrammed gold case, lit it and drew upon it thoughtfully.
Mordecai Tremaine said:
‘All right. Suppose I admit that I’m interested in crime investigation. As an amateur, of course. Naturally when a murder takes place in a house in which I’m a guest I feel I want to know all about it. But that doesn’t mean that I’ve any official standing or any link with the police.’
A faint echo of something Jonathan Boyce had once said to him was stirring in his mind as he spoke. The Yard man had told him that he was a murder magnet; that whenever anyone was killed he either found the body or else was somewhere near at hand. And one half of his mind was reflecting now that it was undoubtedly strange that he should have been on the scene yet again when murder had been let loose.
‘Is there anything,’ he said to the woman facing him, ‘you’d like to tell me?’
‘I presume you mean is there any confession I’d like to make?’ she said. ‘I suppose I’d better make the obvious remark. I didn’t kill Jeremy Rainer.’ She eyed him through a smoke cloud. ‘Now you can try and decide whether I’m innocent but scared and anxious to clear myself, or whether I’m guilty but clever and trying to put you off the scent by pretending to admit that I know I might be suspected.’
‘Did you kill him?’ said Mordecai Tremaine mildly.
‘I know who might have killed him,’ she countered.
Over the top of precarious pince-nez a pair of highly interested eyes regarded her.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes,’ she returned. ‘But the name is not for publication. Because I haven’t a scrap of proof, and it’s unwise to go around accusing other people of being murderers.’
She flicked her cigarette dexterously over an ash-tray, and as his eyes followed her movement Tremaine saw that the tray already contained several stubs bearing traces of lipstick. He looked at her thoughtfully. So her self-assurance was only skin-deep, after all. She sensed what he was thinking and a trace of colour came into her cheeks. But she was saved any further embarrassment, for at that moment the door opened and Nicholas Blaise came in.
His dark eyes went questioningly from one to the other of them.
‘I don’t want to interrupt you,’ he said slowly, ‘but the superintendent has just been talking to Benedict. He doesn’t want anyone to leave the neighbourhood of the house for the present. It’s just a formality, of course, while the police complete their investigations.’
‘We understand, Nick,’ said Rosalind Marsh. ‘We can’t have a murder without undergoing a few inconveniences. Don’t worry. We’ll be good.’
‘I suppose,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘that they’ve put some of the rooms temporarily out of bounds to us?’
‘The room,’ said Blaise. ‘They’re still measuring and taking photographs. They’ve roped off part of the lawn as well.’
‘I haven’t seen Benedict this morning,’ Rosalind Marsh said casually. ‘How’s he taking all this, Nick?’
Blaise hesitated. A wary expression came into his face.
‘In what way do you mean?’ he said, playing for time.
‘After all, Jeremy Rainer was his greatest friend,’ she observed. ‘It must have been a tremendous shock to him.’
‘Yes, of course. At first he just didn’t seem able to grasp it. He isn’t a young man, you know, and he and Jeremy were together for years. But he’s really bearing up remarkably well.’
They reminded Mordecai Tremaine of two fencing opponents, each circling watchfully about the other and searching for an opportunity to deliver a scoring stroke.
Rosalind Marsh smiled. It was a peculiar, significant smile. It was as though she was telling Nicholas Blaise that she appreciated his defence of his employer but was not convinced by it. She said:
‘I’ve a feeling that you two would like to talk to each other. I think I’ll go and commiserate with Delamere. He’s probably seeing his career in ruins around him after this affair!’
‘Don’t let me drive you away, Rosalind,’ said Blaise, a little too quickly.
‘I’m sensitive to atmosphere, Nick,’ she told him gently. ‘Let me be suitably discreet.’
After she had gone Nicholas Blaise turned to his companion.
‘She was right, Mordecai. I do want to talk to you.’
‘I thought you might,’ said Tremaine.
Blaise seated himself on the edge of the table. One long leg swung nervously. Against the light from the window his lean face was anxious.
‘This is a damnable business,’ he said. ‘That’s trite enough, of course, but it’s the plain truth. I asked you down here because I thought that there was something mighty queer going on, but I never dreamed that it would end like this. I never thought that it would come to murder.’
‘You’re worried about Benedict Grame, Nick. Isn’t that it?’ said Tremaine soberly.
Blaise did not reply at once. The leg stopped swinging. Then he said:
‘That was why I asked you to come.’
‘I’m talking about a different worry,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘The new worry. The worry about whether Benedict Grame killed Jeremy Rainer.’
A gasp he could only partly stifle escaped Nicholas Blaise’s lips. He had become very still. When at last he spoke his voice was husky.
‘Why do you say that?’ he asked.
‘There may be other answers,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘but suppose we take the obvious one first. Lucia Tristam.’
Blaise was looking towards the window. His hands were held tightly against the table’s edge.
‘What of Mrs. Tristam?’
‘The magnificent Lucia,’ said Tremaine softly. ‘I rather like that, Nick. It has the full-blooded ring of the kind of period to which she belongs. The period of the Borgias, for instance, when the world was full of flamboyant colour, and loving and hating were on the grand scale. And when murder was the obvious solution to most problems.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘I think you understand me very well, Nick. Two men in love with one woman. Both of them men who in the past have been in the habit of taking what they wanted without paying too much attention to ethics. It’s a situation that can quite easily get out of hand. Suppose the woman isn’t quite sure herself which of them she favours. Suppose one of the suitors decides to settle the issue by getting rid of his rival. Men will do strange things for the love of a woman. And a man who is well past the age of discretion will often act more rashly than the most callow boy.’
Nicholas Blaise made a helpless gesture with one hand.
‘I can’t believe it. It’s altogether too improbable. Things like that just don’t happen.’
‘They happen every day,’ said Tremaine. ‘Only we’re so used to reading about them in the newspapers that we don’t pay much attention to them. Until they happen to us, and then we’re so blind that we delude ourselves that we’ve been especially picked out by fate to act as a target for the unusual.’
His voice suddenly lost its note of mildness. He said:
‘Benedict Grame’s bedroom is immediately over the room where Jeremy Rainer was killed. When Charlotte Grame discovered the dead man she screamed so hard that she awakened all of us. People were moving about the house. There were loud voices. And yet our host made no attempt to discover the reason for such a disturbance in the middle of the night.’
‘Benedict’s a heavy sleeper,’ said Blaise. ‘He may not have heard.’
‘I agree,’ said Tremaine, ‘that there may be an explanation.’
It was clear from Nicholas Blaise’s face that his thoughts were bewildered and uncertain, and that he hesitated to commit himself until he had had an opportunity to think things out more clearly. He said slowly:
‘You haven’t—you haven’t mentioned anything of this to the superintendent?’
‘No. I thought it was the kind of thing that was best discussed between the two of us—at least for the time being.’
Blaise nodded.
‘Thanks, Mordecai. Although I don’t suppose it will be long before it occurs to Cannock … if it hasn’t already done so. He seems capable enough.’
‘Policemen are,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘They may appear to move slowly sometimes, but they don’t miss a great deal.’
Blaise had moved from his position on the table. He was pacing the room with nervous, uneven strides. He said:
‘I can’t believe it of Benedict. I just can’t. Unless——’
‘Unless?’
But evidently Blaise thought that he was carrying his conjectures too far. He did not finish what he had been saying. Instead:
‘I can’t go any further into it now, Mordecai,’ he said haltingly. ‘This—this business means that all kinds of arrangements have to be made and Benedict’s relying on me to deal with them. After all, I’m working for my living, you know. I have to find the others and let them know what’s happening.’
‘I quite understand, Nick. Naturally you have to carry out your duties.’
Blaise did not make any immediate move to go. Apparently there was still some problem exercising his mind. And at last:
‘Benedict’s been very good to me,’ he said. ‘I owe him a great deal. We’ve had our differences, of course, but I’m fond of him. I think I understand him. You’ll let me know if the superintendent—if he begins to have any—any suspicions?’
‘I’ll let you know what I can, Nick. But I can’t tell you, of course, what may be in his mind. He’s hardly likely to take me so far into his confidence.’
‘I think,’ said Blaise, ‘he’ll tell you quite a lot. He knows who you are, and he knows that you may be able to help him.’
He left Mordecai Tremaine in a very thoughtful frame of mind. He was obviously expected to be on intimate terms with Superintendent Cannock. If the superintendent did not prove so approachable, despite that first impression, his personal stock would suffer an embarrassing decline. And on the other hand, if Cannock was prepared to admit him to an unofficial equality and the knowledge of it had the effect of freezing his relationships with his fellow guests, it would be impossible for him to give the superintendent any real aid. Either way, he reflected, he was on the losing side.
He was still staring moodily out of the library window, gazing unhappily at the two detectives busily engaged in examining and measuring the footprints on the lawn, preserved, fortunately, by the night’s frost, when a sound from the doorway made him turn. Denys Arden had come into the room.
‘I’m so glad I’ve found you,’ she said, a little breathlessly. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
The flush in her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes, somewhat feverish in origin though he guessed it to be, gave her a vital quality that accentuated the appeal of her youth. Mordecai Tremaine’s sentimental soul described a somersault. But he said placidly:
‘Old men like me don’t often have the pleasure of being pursued by attractive young ladies!’
She acknowledged his pleasantry with a hurried smile. It was a mechanical change of expression in which she obviously had no real interest.
‘I’ve got to talk to you,’ she said. ‘It’s about Roger.’
Mordecai Tremaine performed the ritual of gazing at her over his pince-nez.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Roger.’
She hurried on, as if she expected him to interrupt her and was desperately anxious to tell her story first.
‘He’s under suspicion,’ she said. ‘The superintendent thinks that he—that he killed my guardian. It’s because he came here last night. It isn’t true! Roger didn’t—couldn’t do such a terrible thing!’
‘What,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘makes you think the superintendent believes he did?’
‘Roger rang me up just now. The police have already been over to the Manor asking questions. They’ve told him he isn’t to leave the neighbourhood.’
‘That doesn’t prove that they suspect him any more than they suspect the rest of us,’ he told her reassuringly. ‘We’ve all had to answer questions. And we’ve all been asked to stay within the grounds of the house. But just as a point of interest,’ he added, ‘why did that young man of yours come here at such a critical moment last night?’
She hesitated. She said slowly:
‘I can—I can speak to you in confidence?’
‘I cannot promise,’ said Mordecai Tremaine gravely, ‘to keep back from the police any information I feel they should have. So if there is anything you do not want them to hear it would be better if you did not tell me.’
‘I understand,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘You’re quite right, of course.’ She raised her head and he was glad that her eyes held no veiled secrets. ‘Roger came because he was worried about me. He had a feeling that there was something strange going on in this house. He had no proof of anything, and I tried to laugh him out of it, told him that he was imagining things.
‘Last night he seemed more convinced than ever that something was wrong. He wanted to stay in the house, but although Benedict wouldn’t have objected he knew that Jeremy would have made a scene about it and that’s why he left when we all went to bed. At least, that was why he appeared to leave. I didn’t know at the time, of course, but he drove his car a little way down the road and then came back to the house on foot. He stayed outside watching. He said he wanted to be near me in case anything happened. I suppose it sounds rather impossible and foolish now, but you see’—her voice wavered—‘you see—Roger’s in love with me.’
‘I believe,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘that he is.’
His eyes were warmly understanding. There was an image in his mind of a lover who kept watch for his beloved, waiting loyally in the bitter darkness of a winter’s night so that he could be near if danger threatened. It was the crazy folly of youth, but it was a brave, dear folly. It was something rare and precious that glowed in a cynical world of gloom.
But it was undoubtedly something that would need a great deal of explaining to a jury of hard-headed citizens who had long since ceased to cherish romantic notions. It was something that would lose its magic when it was dragged out into the critical light of a police enquiry. For the police, being severely practical men, would require a more materialistic explanation of Roger Wynton’s presence.
Mordecai Tremaine was troubled. Any suggestion of true love imperilled was enough to arouse his sympathies. The incurable romanticist in him made it inevitable that he should be ranged on the side of the lovers.
‘I take it,’ he said, ‘that this quixotic young man of yours has given the police the explanation you’ve just given me and they weren’t altogether impressed.’
‘They weren’t,’ she told him. ‘The superintendent was quite polite, but Roger said that he made it clear that he didn’t believe that it was the whole story. He wanted to know what made Roger feel that something was going to happen.’ A sense of helplessness had crept into her voice. ‘The trouble is that there isn’t anything either of us can say. There’s nothing definite we can give them.’
‘And what,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘do you want me to do?’
She turned to him with a look of appeal.
‘There was something wrong,’ she said. ‘You know how you can feel things even when there’s nothing you can actually describe. You could tell from Jeremy’s attitude that there was something on his mind. If you could find out what it was—if you could discover the reason for his s
trangeness, you might be on the way to finding out who killed him. You might be able to find out exactly what happened here last night.’
‘In other words,’ he said, ‘you want me to find the murderer in order to convince Superintendent Cannock that Roger Wynton isn’t guilty, and you’ve come to me because you think the superintendent has already made up his mind that he is.’
His directness disconcerted her for a moment or two.
‘Yes,’ she admitted slowly, ‘that is the reason.’ And added, ‘Say you will try and help us—please.’
Mordecai Tremaine regarded her seriously.
‘Naturally it’s the business of the police to find out who killed your guardian,’ he told her, ‘but I confess that I’m interested, and if I can do anything to help you I’ll certainly be pleased to do so. You realize, of course,’ he went on quickly, anticipating her gratitude, ‘that if you give me your confidences I may discover things you might prefer left unknown. It will be too late then to conceal them.’
A hint of fear seeped into her eyes.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that as far as the police are concerned Roger Wynton had both the opportunity and the motive for the murder. He was here last night at a time when he should have been at home and in bed. He’s in love with you, and your guardian had quarrelled violently with him and made it clear that he would never consent to his marrying you. If Superintendent Cannock does think as you say he does it’s just possible that he may be right.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said, and her hand went to her lips. ‘No—not you. You can’t mean that you think Roger is guilty.’
‘I haven’t said so,’ he told her. ‘But someone must be.’
Her face had lost some of its colour, but her voice was under control.
‘You’re quite wrong,’ she said steadily. ‘You’re only speaking like that because you don’t know Roger.’
Compassion and perhaps just a twinge of conscience were at work upon Mordecai Tremaine now.
‘I don’t want you to think,’ he said, ‘that I’m prejudiced against Mr. Wynton. After all, you know, each of us is under suspicion to some degree. Now,’ he went on cheerfully, trying to put her at her ease, ‘what is there you can tell me that might help? What about the fellow who was in a hurry to get away from the house? Is there anything you know about him that might offer a clue?’
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