She crossed over to the girl and laid a kindly crimson hand on her shoulder.
‘Don’t you worry, dear. Don’t you worry at all.’
Mike felt himself gaping at her with fascinated horror. There was a ghastliness about this practical side of death which over-topped the sum of frightfulness which had confronted him in that short morning. Mrs Austin was kind; sympathy and friendliness oozed from her every pore; and yet she was enjoying the tragedy with all the shameful delight of the under-entertained.
He glanced at Gina. She was thinking, her face white, her eyes dark and blank.
He found himself feeling that she ought to cry and yet being relieved that she did not. He knew it would never occur to her to adopt any conventional attitude. The sudden loss of Paul could hardly be a great emotional tragedy, but it was naturally a tremendous shock.
He was looking at her, trying to divine her thoughts, when Mrs Austin touched his sleeve.
‘I’d like a few words with you outside, sir, please,’ she said, and before the elaborate solemnity which scarcely veiled the exuberant curiosity which consumed her, he was helpless. He followed her meekly.
The fog was not yet at its worst, but the streets were as dark as at midnight and the waves of bitter, soot-laden air softened and blurred the edges of familiar objects until London was like an old brown lithograph chalked by a man with no eye for detail.
In the basement at Twenty-three John had taken charge of the proceedings, the doctor hovering ineffectually at his side. One of the smaller packing tables had been taken off its trestles and upon it the sheeted body of Paul Brande now lay. Under John’s supervision the whole affair was being managed very decently.
Old Dobson, the chief packer, a bull-necked individual with arms like the forelegs of a cart-horse and a red rim round his head where a cap had sat, took the head of the improvised stretcher, while the foot was supported by a Mr Peter Rigget from the Accounts Department. Mr Rigget had somehow appeared upon the staircase at the critical moment and, much to his delight, had been invited to assist. He was a squat, insignificant-looking young man, long in the body and short in the leg, with a solidity which would become fleshy in a few years. It was his misfortune that he looked like the popular conception of the less attractive black-coated worker, even to the pink sensitive nose and the very shiny gold pince-nez. In a rather futile effort to combat this disadvantage he wore his very black hair en brosse, and, to his eternal credit, spent much of his spare time in the Regent Street Polytechnic gymnasium hardening his muscles.
With a certain amount of assistance from the doctor, therefore, he was quite able to manage the task for which he had angled.
Mr Rigget had been waiting to get into the heart of the excitement downstairs ever since his sensitive perceptions had got wind of it less than three minutes after the discovery of the body, for it was a tragic fact that, in spite of his struggles against his destiny, Mr Rigget remained what he had been born and reared to be, an inquisitive, timid, dishonourable person with a passion for self-aggrandisement which was almost a mania.
‘Not through the street.’ John made the statement sound like an edict. ‘We shall have to go the back way, through the garden and into the basement at Twenty-one. We can’t have a crowd in front of the office. Are you ready?’
Not for the first time during the past ten minutes the doctor shot a curious glance at the elegant, elderly head of the firm. John Widdowson’s complete preoccupation with his own particular aspect of the tragedy, and his utter disregard for any sort of pretence at conventional grief was something unique in his experience.
He found it all the more puzzling because he did not know the man well and did not realize that it was the outcome of life-long habit and was nothing to do with the unusual circumstances.
The procession moved off out into the yard through the narrow door between the strong-room and the furnace cellar. Once in the fog the picture became macabre. The massive Dobson was blurred and transfigured into a shadow of heroic size, while Peter Rigget, bending forward under the weight, became foreshortened and spread out into something dwarfish and deformed.
The white burden between them widened and narrowed at every new angle which its path dictated, and the folds of the sheet hung limply in the cold still air.
They went down the stone way between the garage and the loading shed and turned sharply to the right, negotiating a little-used gate in the wall with difficulty.
Their progress through the other house was even more awkward, and both John and the doctor were forced to lend every assistance as they struggled and panted up the seven flights of stairs.
Mrs Austin admitted them with red-eyed reverence as long as the door was open, and whispering efficiency as soon as it was shut. She and the doctor understood each other instantly, and for the first time that morning the professional man received that mixture of awe and clumsy but well-meant assistance to which his long professional life had accustomed him.
‘Mrs Brande’s quite laid out, poor thing,’ Mrs Austin announced in a stage whisper, adding with ambiguous sentimentality, ‘Mr Wedgwood’s with her, comforting her as only he can. I’ve told him not to let her come out for a minute or two.’
John looked at the woman as though he wondered what rather than who she was, and followed Dobson and Peter Rigget into the spare room where nearly all the best linen had been set out by Mrs Austin because a doctor was coming.
Dobson left at once, glad to go, but Peter Rigget lingered until bidden sharply by his employer to return to work.
Meanwhile, Mrs Austin turned back the sheet.
John went out of the room. He felt he could not possibly be of any assistance, and he found the situation disagreeable.
Mike had escaped from Mrs Austin only when the knock at the door had heralded bigger game. He and Gina had barely spoken when John came in. He stood eyeing their questioning faces absently for a moment, his mind clearly upon other things, but as he sat down he addressed the girl.
‘We brought him up, Gina, because he couldn’t possibly stay down there.’
‘But of course not. Of course not,’ she said, her deep voice rising a little. ‘What’s the matter with you all? Of course they must bring him to his home. I’ll go to him.’
Mike stood in her path and she looked up at him.
‘You’re not protecting me, you’re frightening me,’ she said, and swung round to John. ‘Where did it happen, John? Where has he been all this time?’
‘In the strong-room.’ He still spoke impersonally, his mind preoccupied.
‘In the strong-room?’ The girl repeated the words as though she doubted her senses. ‘But I thought that place was kept locked; locked from the outside and the key in Curley’s desk.’
John blinked at her. ‘It’s all very terrible, I admit, my dear, but there are so many things to think of besides details.’
Gina sat down suddenly. The change in her face was extraordinary. She looked haggard, blue-shadowed and years older.
‘Mike,’ she said unsteadily, ‘you were down there last night.’
‘In the strong-room? Were you really, Mr Wedgwood? You must excuse me, but this is very curious indeed, isn’t it?’
Little Doctor Roe stepped forward from the doorway where he had been hesitating for the past few moments.
‘Doctor, this is Mrs Brande.’ John’s voice was gently reproving.
The little man was pulled up short. He looked uncomfortable.
‘Er – quite, quite; I see. Er – may I say how extremely sorry I am, Madam? I am afraid you must have had a very great shock.’ Doctor Roe’s best professional manner was to the fore as he pressed Gina’s hand, but he returned to Mike immediately.
‘You went down to the strong-room last night?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, Doctor, I did.’ Mike’s tone sounded over-friendly in his eagerness to explain. ‘Yes, I did. I went down for a folder for my cousin. I took the key out of the desk where it is always kept, unlocked the d
oor, found the book, relocked the place and put the key back and hurried up here. I was only in there for a second but I –I didn’t see anything.’
There was a long pause. The doctor’s eyes had become like John’s, veiled and introspective.
‘Well,’ he said after what seemed an interminable silence, ‘there will be certain formalities, you understand.’ He coughed.
‘Formalities?’ John looked up. ‘I don’t quite understand. What was the cause of death, Doctor?’
The professional man hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t like to commit myself just now,’ he murmured at last. ‘My opinion will be tested by post-mortem before the inquest.’
‘Inquest?’ John stiffened. ‘Really? Surely that’s not necessary in a case like this?’
The authoritative tone somehow saved the question from sounding absurd.
The little doctor stood like a Trojan on the one piece of ground he knew to be firm.
‘Mr Widdowson,’ he said, ‘I did not attend your cousin before his death. I am not at all sure how he died, and I am afraid I must refuse to grant a certificate.’
‘And what exactly does that mean?’ John’s tone was, if anything, slightly contemptuous.
The doctor looked profoundly uncomfortable.
‘The case will automatically come under the cognisance of the coroner as an uncertified death,’ he said slowly. ‘I – er – I am afraid I can do nothing more.’
He still hovered, his eyes beneath their heavy brows interested and bright.
Gina pulled herself together with an effort.
‘Doctor,’ she said, ‘I think I will go to my husband. Will you come with me, please?’
She moved quickly out of the room, the little man at her heels.
Mike strode restlessly up and down. The cousins were not communicative as a family and a crisis did not loosen their tongues. John remained silent for some considerable time. Finally he said:
‘Inquest, eh? How extremely like Paul – flamboyant to the end.’
Mike stared at him, but he went on in a perfectly normal tone:
‘Ring down to Miss Curley, will you? Tell her to come up here herself and bring a notebook.’
Mike hesitated, opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it and went out obediently. He had just finished phoning in the little booth at the far end of the hall when the doctor and Gina came out of the spare room. He hung back to wait for her.
The little man was all kindliness.
‘Leave it all to me, Mrs Brande,’ he said, holding her hand. ‘I quite understand. The shock has been very great. Don’t worry. Leave it all to me.’
It passed through Mike’s mind that Gina was like that. There was something essentially feminine about her, something that inspired a spirit of protection in the most unlikely breasts. However, there was nothing shrinking about her as she came hurrying down the corridor towards him.
‘Oh, Mike, what has happened?’ she demanded. ‘What are you and John doing? What are you hiding?’
‘Hiding? My dear girl –’ Mike was aghast. ‘You must forgive old John,’ he went on hastily. ‘He’s much more knocked up than he shows, and after all, the firm does mean such a lot to him that he can’t help thinking of it even at a time like this.’
The girl placed her hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes.
‘Mike,’ she said, ‘I do believe you actually mean all this rubbish. My dear, don’t you see, the doctor won’t give a certificate. He’s not satisfied. How could he be in the circumstances? How could you be? How could I be? I’ve asked him to report to the Coroner. He was obviously going to anyway. Oh Mike, are you listening to me? Do you understand?’
‘I only know that this ghastly thing has happened to you, of all people,’ he said. ‘Look here, Gina, don’t get alarmed. We’ll fix it somehow so that you don’t have to go to the damned inquest.’
The girl passed her hand over her forehead.
‘Oh – oh, dear God!’ she whispered, and crumpled at his feet.
Mike carried her into her bedroom.
It was over three-quarters of an hour later when Mr Rigget came creeping up the stairs. John held up his hand warningly as Mrs Austin showed the excited young man into the room. It was one of John’s peculiarities that he regarded himself as the undisputed owner of any room in the two buildings, and the fact that he was now using his bereaved cousin-in-law’s studio as an office did not strike him as being in any way unfitting or extraordinary.
‘… suddenly at his place of business, Miss Curley,’ he was saying. ‘Funeral arrangements later. That’s for The Times, Morning Post and Telegraph. The other paragraph Mr Pelham can send out to the places he best thinks fit. Mr Rigget, what do you want?’
The final phrase was uttered in such a complete change of tone that Miss Curley started violently. But Peter Rigget was not quelled. For one of the few times in his life he was the bearer of important news.
‘Mr Widdowson,’ he burst out, ‘there are two men at the office asking for you. I slipped out through the garden and came up the back way to warn you.’
‘To warn me?’ John eyed the young man with a nice admixture of distaste and astonishment. ‘What are you talking about? What two men?’
‘Well, sir,’ said Mr Rigget flatly, cheated of his drama, ‘one of them’s a Coroner’s Officer and the other is a plain-clothes man. They only send the plain-clothes man, sir, when it’s – serious.’
CHAPTER III
Design for an Accident
MR CAMPION SAT IN the waiting-room at the Sign of the Golden Quiver and reflected philosophically that it is often the fate of experts to be called in and left in a corner. The young woman who had admitted him had been very firm: he was to wait.
As he sat in the shadow of the mahogany mantelpiece and sniffed the leather and tobacco scented air he regarded the room with interest. There are publishers whose waiting-rooms are like those on draughty provincial railway stations; others that resemble corners of better class bookshops, with the wares tastefully displayed; and still others that stun by their sombre magnificence and give the odd impression that somebody very old and very rich is dying upstairs: but the waiting-room at Twenty-three expressed the personality of Barnabas Limited and was solid and comfortable and rather nice, like the dining-room of a well-fed mid-Victorian household.
Mr Campion caught himself glancing at the polished side tables and supposing that the silver had gone to be cleaned. Apart from a few early editions in a locked glass and wire-fronted cupboard there was not a book in the place.
A portrait of Jacoby Barnabas, the uncle of the present directors, hung over the mantelpiece in a grand baroque frame. Head and shoulders were life-size, and it was evident from a certain overpainting in the work that the artist had striven with some difficulty for a likeness.
It showed a strong, heavily-boned man of sixty-odd with the beard and curling white hair of a Victorian philanthropist, but the light eyes set deeply in the fine square head were imperious and very cold, and the small mouth was pursed and narrow amid the beautiful fleecy whiteness of the beard. A grim old boy, thought Mr Campion, and turned his attention to the other visitor, who stood stiffly on the other side of a centre table which ought to have had a silver epergne upon it.
He was a fat young man with a red face, who looked less as though he had a secret sorrow than a grievance which was not going to be a secret very long. He regarded Mr Campion with what appeared to be suppressed hatred, but as soon as the other ventured to remark inanely that it was a nice foggy day he burst out into the spasmodic but more than eager conversation of one who has been in solitary confinement.
Mr Campion, who thought privately that all young persons who voluntarily shut themselves up half their lives alone, scribbling down lies in the pathetic hope of entertaining or instructing their fellows, must necessarily be the victims of some sort of phobia, was duly sympathetic. Moreover, his curiosity concerning the business downstairs was fast becoming unbearable and he was
glad to have something to crowd it out of his mind.
The fat young man flung himself down in a chair.
‘I’m waiting to see Mr Widdowson,’ he said abruptly. ‘I usually see Brande, but to-day I’ve got to go to the Headmaster. They’re all infernally casual, aren’t they? I’ve been here half an hour.’
In view of all the circumstances Mr Campion did not know quite what to say, but his silence did not worry the other man, if indeed he noticed it at all.
‘I expect Brande will be down in a moment,’ he went on explosively. ‘Do you know him? A nice chap. Very enthusiastic. Gets all het-up about things. He’s made a lot of difference to this place since he left the army. He was in the States for a bit, you know, and then came back and started putting a bit of pep into this mausoleum.’
He paused again but only for breath. Since neither of them even so much as knew the other’s name Mr Campion found him quite extraordinarily indiscreet, but he recognized the symptoms and understood that people who are forced to spend long periods alone can rarely chat noncommittally. The fat young man’s tongue was running away with him again.
‘Brande married an American, you know,’ he said accusingly. ‘Extraordinarily pretty girl, I believe. It seems a pity they don’t…’ He broke off hastily and rose to his feet again, glaring at Campion this time as if he had discovered him trying to surprise him into a confidence.
Mr Campion looked comfortingly blank and as the other retired to a corner, crimson with rage and confusion, he rose himself and, wandering across to the heavily-curtained windows peered through them into the fog.
‘I wonder where Brande is,’ said the plaintive voice behind him after a pause.
Mr Campion stiffened and controlled the insane impulse to say, ‘There goes his body, anyway. Looks a fishy little procession, doesn’t it?’ and turned back into the room just as the door opened and a girl came in.
She was neither particularly good to look at nor possessed of an arresting personality, but she caught Mr Campion’s interest at once. She was small and very dark and affected the coiffure of a medieval page and a small straight blue serge dress with a white collar and cuffs. The effect aimed at was a twelve-year-old schoolgirl, but the result was ruined by the maturity of her face, hands and neck. She smiled at the fat young man.
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