Blaise hesitated.
‘Well, no,’ he admitted. ‘I can’t prove he didn’t. But I know Benedict and I know that he couldn’t have killed Jeremy!’
His sincerity revealed itself in a note that was desperately anxious. Mordecai Tremaine said quietly:
‘All right, Nick. There isn’t a case against him yet. And I promise you I’ll let you know if anything else comes to light.’
Lunch was the usual macabre affair that meals had become. There were moments when everyone tried to be gay at once, punctuated by long intervals of silence. The ghost of Jeremy Rainer sat behind every chair.
Except two. Glancing around the table Mordecai Tremaine reflected that he and Benedict Grame were the only people who seemed free of the dead man’s influence. Grame was talking animatedly, trying to include them all in his gesture, working with all the intensity of the captain of a side spending his last energies in an effort to keep his flagging team together.
In the hours that had passed since the discovery of the murder Grame had grown in stature. While the others had become steadily more subdued and anxious, he had been developing confidence. He gave Mordecai Tremaine the impression now that he was even enjoying the situation. And not merely enjoying but somehow controlling it.
He looked towards the head of the table and met the amused glance of the blue eyes. The bushy eyebrows lifted a trifle. Grame might have been inviting him to share a joke that he knew only the two of them could appreciate.
Gerald Beechley was not present. His vacant chair was a question mark that invited comment and yet did not receive it. There might have been a tacit understanding among them not to mention the big man’s absence.
Only Mordecai Tremaine, untroubled by scruples in such a matter, presumed to probe openly.
‘I wonder what’s happened to Mr. Beechley?’ he said to Rosalind Marsh, who was once again his neighbour.
She gave him a glance in which there was a faint hint of surprise.
‘I thought,’ she said coolly, ‘you would have known. Gerald’s been hitting the bottle again.’
‘Again?’
‘It isn’t an entirely new phenomenon,’ she told him.
It was evident that she believed him to be feigning ignorance in order to draw her. Mordecai Tremaine considered for a moment or two whether he should press the subject, then decided against it.
His brief exchange with Rosalind Marsh had already attracted attention. He did not think that their actual words had been overheard, but both Delamere and Lorring were looking in their direction, and the predominant expression on each of their faces was suspicion.
The situation had reached the point where each member of the party was furtively watching the others, anxious to miss nothing that might have a bearing on the tragedy that overshadowed them. And above all, Mordecai Tremaine knew, they were watching himself. Every action he performed, every word he spoke was being analysed to see whether it would give an indication of his thoughts, and whether it would reveal the direction in which the suspicions of the police were trending.
It was, he thought, not so much like sitting on the proverbial barrel of gunpowder as being the fuse to the said barrel. It only needed someone to believe that he or she had struck a spark and the whole thing would explode.
After lunch Benedict Grame took charge of his guests. He was clearly determined to prevent any morose brooding in lonely rooms until suspicion and irritation produced the inevitable crisis. The afternoon was spent in games of the old-fashioned variety that required everyone to take part. Even Lorring allowed himself to be blindfolded with no more than a brief, half-hearted snort of protest.
The main brunt of the programme fell upon Nicholas Blaise. Time after time Grame called him to his aid and time after time Blaise submitted himself to be the butt of some new piece of entertainment. He bore it all with a smile, although it was clear that he must have been feeling the strain. There was a kind of dogged devotion about him that Mordecai Tremaine found almost pathetic.
So close a watch did Grame keep upon the party that it was difficult to slip away. When at last even his host’s energies began to slacken Tremaine managed to efface himself unnoticed, and he experienced a sense of relief when he was outside the door. The atmosphere was unhealthily near hysteria. The sight of a number of people whom he knew to be obsessed by dark fears all trying to behave as though they had nothing in their minds but a desire to outdo each other in gaiety of manner possessed a grotesque quality that verged upon the indecent.
The door of Gerald Beechley’s room was locked. Tremaine rapped upon it in the peremptory manner of a person who did not intend to be refused admittance, and in a few moments there were fumbling movements inside the room and the door was opened.
Beechley, unnaturally flushed, stood swaying on the threshold, peering at him. Mordecai Tremaine said:
‘I want to talk to you.’
There was an unaccustomed edge to his voice. It penetrated even Beechley’s alcohol-sodden mind. He made no protest as Mordecai Tremaine stepped past him. He shut the door again and huddled himself into an armchair pulled in front of the fire blazing in the wide grate.
Tremaine looked at it. He said:
‘Have you been burning any evidence today?’
An expression of fear sharpened Gerald Beechley’s features.
‘What do you mean?’
Although he had undoubtedly been drinking heavily he was still in possession of his senses. His eyes were red-rimmed buttons of defensive cunning.
‘I mean that Superintendent Cannock is well aware that you burned a Father Christmas outfit in here yesterday. You didn’t make a very successful job of it. There was enough of it left for the police experts to find out what it was.’
Beechley half rose from his chair.
‘You interfering little snake,’ he said thickly. ‘Let me get my hands on you …’
Mordecai Tremaine tried not to betray his alarm. He faced the big man apparently unmoved by his threatening manner.
‘Violence won’t do you any good,’ he said quietly. ‘But frankness might.’
Something in his voice sobered Beechley. The malevolence drained out of him. He relapsed into the armchair, sat there hunched.
‘What are you getting at?’ he said shakily.
‘You bought a Father Christmas outfit in Calnford,’ said Mordecai Tremaine. ‘An outfit you later burned because you were afraid it might be found in your possession. You were wearing it on the night Jeremy Rainer died.’
‘You’ve been spying on me,’ said Beechley. His voice contained an odd mixture of savagery and petulance. ‘Ever since you came here you’ve been watching and prying. But you’ve got to have proof to make a case against anyone and you can’t prove anything against me.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘I can. Suppose someone informed the police that you bought that outfit. Things wouldn’t look too good for you.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Beechley, something approaching a sneer in his tone. ‘But they didn’t.’
‘But,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘they did. It was Benedict Grame.’
Mentally he justified the statement as he made it. Even if Grame had not spoken directly to the police, he had been well aware when he had been talking on the terrace that he was doing the next best thing, and that his words would reach the ears of Superintendent Cannock.
The effect on Gerald Beechley was greater than he had expected. The big man’s breath came hissingly. He huddled back in the chair as though he had been dealt a physical blow.
‘Benedict?’ he said. ‘He told them?’
Mordecai Tremaine nodded.
‘It was Mr. Grame,’ he said.
Beechley seemed to be struggling to adjust his thoughts to meet a new and unpleasant situation for which he had not been prepared. He passed his tongue over his lips. Watching him intently Mordecai Tremaine saw his expression lose its mixture of fear and dismay and harden into vindictiveness.
&nbs
p; At last the other leaned forward. His eyes had a glitter in them. He reached out to clutch Mordecai Tremaine’s sleeve. He said hoarsely:
‘Here’s something else for the police to know since they’re so anxious to find out things. Where was Benedict when Jeremy was killed?’
Tremaine carefully held back the excitement from his voice.
‘In his room—one presumes.’
‘That’s just it,’ said Beechley. There was a savage bitterness in the words. ‘He wasn’t. His room was empty.’
‘How,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘do you know that?’
This time, despite his care, he could not keep his tone level, and Beechley seemed abruptly to realize where his emotions were leading him. He sat back again in the chair, and it was as if he was retreating into a shell. A shell from which his eyes peered suspiciously.
‘I was joking,’ he said shortly. ‘I’m not myself. I didn’t know what I was saying.’
There was a look on his puffy face that warned Mordecai Tremaine that he had reached the flash-point. Beechley was a badly frightened man. So frightened that he would become ugly if he decided to tell himself that he had been irretrievably cornered. And looking at the big frame and the powerful hands, Tremaine knew that the time had come to make his exit.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Any time you feel you’d like to change your mind let me know.’
Beechley did not try to stop him leaving, and when he was outside the room once more he metaphorically wiped his brow. That interview had been a little too much like a visit to the tiger’s cage.
But it had undoubtedly been fruitful. If Gerald Beechley knew that Benedict Grame’s room had been empty on the night of the murder he could only have gained his knowledge because he himself had been there. Which promptly connected him with the missing necklace.
No doubt it had been the realization that he was betraying his own guilt that had caused him to change his attitude. In his vindictive desire to accuse Benedict Grame he had momentarily overlooked the fact that he was incriminating himself. For it was obvious that if he had gone to Grame’s room at such a time it had not been with any intention of paying a social visit. Taken in conjunction with his known financial difficulties and the strangeness of his manner when he had asked whether there was anything missing, it provided a damning indictment.
But it was not the fate of the necklace with which Mordecai Tremaine was concerned. Benedict Grame, who had taken such an unreasonable time to be aroused and who had apparently been the last person to hear the disturbance taking place immediately beneath him, had been missing from his room at some time on the night of the murder.
That was the damaging fact that Gerald Beechley had thrust into prominence. Grame’s alibi, unsupported though it might have been, had at least possessed the merit of being as valid as that of any of the others. Now it was indeed a sorry thing of shreds and patches.
16
THE NEWSPAPERS had seized upon their opportunity with an enthusiasm that seemed to have been intensified by their two days’ inability to burst into print. The setting and circumstances of the murder were bizarre enough to have entitled it to a prominent display in any event, and as it happened it reaped the benefit of a post-Christmas dearth of news. The bitter irony of the red-robed Father Christmas lying dead beneath a decorated Christmas tree, the missing presents, the snow-covered countryside providing such a seasonable background to the crime, had all fired the editorial imaginations. And a liberal allowance of space had permitted the said imaginations to indulge in passages of the purest purple.
Mordecai Tremaine spent the morning searching for and reading copies of each newspaper. He was relieved to find that his own name did not appear. None of the reporters, apparently, had yet discovered his identity and turned the spotlight upon him.
So far, in fact, and stripped of the colourful trimmings, no report contained more in the way of basic facts than that the dead man had been found in the early hours of the morning lying beneath a Christmas tree from which the gifts placed there by the host of the party had mysteriously vanished. Tremaine sensed the hand of Superintendent Cannock. That gentleman had presented the Press with the bare bones of the murder and had discouraged more detailed enquiries. He had not been anxious for too much information to find its way into print before his investigations could get fairly started.
It was unlikely, of course, that such a state of things would last much longer. These were the first editions, and the reporters had been told enough to enable them to give the story a good send-off. It had not, therefore, mattered a great deal that Superintendent Cannock had kept them away from Sherbroome House and that since the majority of the guests had stayed indoors, there had been little opportunity to add to the official details.
But now London would be demanding follow-up accounts. Which meant that the reporters on the spot would be a great deal more persistent. Each of the occupants of the house would have to face a polite but determined questioning.
At present Austin Delamere was receiving most attention. As he was a public figure it was, of course, to be expected. The newspapers had their files concerning him ready to hand, and they had briefly outlined his career for the benefit of their readers.
Delamere clearly did not relish it. His plump face was clouded with sullen anger. He was avidly reading as many accounts as he could and yet each newspaper he obtained served merely to upset him further. He turned their pages with a kind of savage resentment, as if he wished he had the persons responsible for their publication at his mercy.
No accusations had been made against him. There was not a suggestion anywhere that he had had a hand in the death of Jeremy Rainer or that he knew why the other had died. But his name had been linked with murder, and it was plain that he was fearful of its effect upon his career.
To Mordecai Tremaine it was not without significance. It meant that Delamere knew that his reputation was not above reproach. It meant that he dared not risk a hint of scandal now lest it revived old suspicions and placed him in a position where resignation would be the only course.
‘I see,’ he remarked to Delamere, deliberately drawing him, ‘that it didn’t take the newspapers long to make a talking point out of your being here. It’s one of the penalties for being in the public eye, I suppose.’
The politician rustled the newspaper he was holding aggressively.
‘Damn lot of prying ghouls,’ he grunted. ‘Why can’t they leave a man’s private life alone!’
He tried to speak angrily but there was a quaver in his voice that betrayed him. Mordecai Tremaine knew that Austin Delamere wasn’t indignant. He was frightened.
He left the plump man still torturing himself and, wrapping himself warmly, went out to the terrace. Lucia Tristam was already there. He had, in fact, seen her from the window and her presence had led to his own decision to go out. Her fur coat pulled tightly around her she was pacing to and fro in front of the french windows of the room in which Jeremy Rainer had died.
Mordecai Tremaine said:
‘Would you like a stroll as far as the village before lunch?’
There was a momentary hesitation before she replied. It might have been because she had only become aware of him when he had spoken to her. She said:
‘No—thank you. It’s too cold to go far.’
‘I think you’re wise,’ said Mordecai Tremaine meaningly. ‘After all, there are sure to be dozens of inquisitive newspaper reporters about.’
The green tints flashed in her eyes. It might have been either anger or fear that was alive in them. Her lips moved stiffly.
‘Is that important?’
‘Isn’t it?’ said Mordecai Tremaine gently. He looked over the pince-nez. He said: ‘They’re a very persistent race, you know. They ask all sorts of questions. They might ask questions you would find embarrassing.’
She took a sudden, instinctive step towards him. Colour had come into her face. She looked very lovely—and very dangerous.
; ‘I don’t know where to place you,’ she said, in a low, tense voice. ‘You don’t look as though there’s any warm blood in you. I didn’t think I needed to worry about you at first. I thought you were just a harmless, talkative busybody. But now——’ Her hand came down upon his sleeve. He felt the warm, generous life in her even through the glove and the cloth. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’ She said, ‘How much do you really know?’
‘I know,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘that Jeremy Rainer was in love with you. And that Benedict Grame is in love with you.’
She turned abruptly away from him, to stare out across the lawns. Despite the partly concealing fur he could discern the quick rise and fall of her breasts.
‘Supposition,’ she said, ‘isn’t proof.’
‘I don’t suppose,’ said Mordecai Tremaine, ‘that anyone could prove now that Rainer loved you. But what about Benedict Grame?’
‘What about Benedict?’ she said quickly.
‘You must be aware,’ he said, ‘that things are looking black for him at the moment.’
‘No,’ she told him, ‘I’m not aware of it.’ She turned to face him again and there was an urgent note in her voice. ‘What are you trying to say? What has happened?’
Mordecai Tremaine pushed back his pince-nez.
‘Benedict Grame,’ he observed levelly, ‘was out of his room at the time of the murder. Jeremy Rainer was in love with you. And Jeremy Rainer is now dead. You realize the construction the police will place on those simple facts?’
There was no doubt that he had shaken her. The bright flush of colour came and went in her face.
‘It isn’t true,’ she said. ‘It isn’t true! Benedict didn’t kill Jeremy! I know he didn’t. He couldn’t have killed him. Because——’
She broke off. Fear was in naked command of her eyes.
‘Because?’ prompted Mordecai Tremaine.
But she would not respond. He did not think, in fact, that she had even heard him. She gave a little choking sound and brushed hastily past him.
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