“Hope for better luck with Miss Rowe’s,” answered Pratt.
“Yes, by Jove! But you’ll be doing Miss Aveling again first, eh?”
Pratt shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps—if it doesn’t preserve unfortunate memories. Of course, there wouldn’t be a lunatic butler around this time to interfere.”
“Of course not. That chap’s going, ain’t he?”
“So is the attractive maid, Bessie, who caused the trouble,” smiled Pratt.
“What! Sacked, too?” Pratt shook his head and began to lay out the cards. “Oh, I get you,” said Mr. Rowe. “She’s agreed to be your model?”
“I understand she has agreed to be Thomas Newson’s wife,” replied Pratt. “When we menfolk get into trouble, our women are illogically adhesive. Even Mrs. Chater outraged sanity by failing to rejoice in her husband’s death.”
Edyth Fermoy-Jones looked pensively understanding. She had written about such women.
Mrs. Rowe, less appreciative of Pratt’s reflections, murmured, “Ruth, get a pack, as I told you.”
Bultin said, “You’ve only laid out six cards.”
“Would you like to do the damn thing yourself?” asked Pratt.…
In the ante-room, Nadine Leveridge suddenly broke a long silence. John could now hobble with the aid of a stick, but the ante-room had remained his headquarters, and Nadine had drifted there in obedience to a natural impulse. But she also had a definite object, and before she left the room there were certain matters she had determined to clear up. One of them she tackled now.
“What’s on your mind, John?” she asked. “Tell me.”
“Oh, nothing really, I suppose,” he answered. “Anyhow, we won’t talk about it.”
“But I’ve come especially to talk about it,” she objected. “Conscience worrying you?”
“Can anybody ever hide anything from you?”
“You can’t—much! You’re not satisfied that you’ve done your duty. Perjury’s a new experience for you, and you don’t like it.”
“You don’t mince your words,” he murmured.
“It’s never been my habit,” she replied, “and I’m not breaking my habit with you. But if you’ve committed perjury—to the extent of informing the inspector that you’d told him everything when you hadn’t—well, you were acting on my advice, so I’m your partner in crime. It’s no good shaking your head. It’s true. And, that being so, shouldn’t I know the degree of the crime I’ve partnered you in?”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means, John, what information did you withhold from the inspector, exactly?”
“Well—I never said a word about Anne.”
“Thank God!”
“But—but—if—”
“John!” she interrupted. “You’ve not known Anne long, but you’ve known her long enough to answer this question: Do you think Anne Aveling is capable of committing a cold-blooded murder?”
“Of course not.”
“Or any kind of a murder?”
“She’d have to have a damn good reason.”
“I see. And then she might?”
“And then she might,” answered John unhappily. “You see, Nadine, I’m not mincing my words now, either.”
“I’m glad you’re not. And I agree with you that if Anne had a damn good reason—I mean, a reason that seemed damn good to her—she might commit murder. But it wouldn’t be a cold-blooded murder. And she had no reason of any kind—damn good or damn bad—to murder Mr. Chater.”
“I suppose you’re certain of that?”
“Sufficiently certain not to give it a second thought. You know, don’t you, that everything is pointing to suicide?”
“Yes.”
“And, of course,” she continued, “if any one not Anne were arrested, you’d come forward with the rest of your knowledge?”
“I’d have to then.”
“Naturally you’d have to. You couldn’t risk the wrong person paying the price. So why worry? Why not continue to wait as you’re doing, and save the hell of a lot of unnecessary bother? We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but Mr. Chater was a rat, and if a rat commits suicide, as this one seems to have done—well, it can be quite convenient.”
“Yes—if he commits suicide,” answered John slowly. Then he shot an abrupt question at her. “Do you know that Anne came down twice last night?”
“You only told me once,” replied Nadine.
“I know. It was Anne herself who told me of the second time. She said she came to get the book she’d forgotten.”
“Well, that explained that, didn’t it?”
“Did it? I didn’t hear her come down the second time.”
“Is that important?”
“It means she didn’t come down for the book for quite a while. Long after one would have thought she needed it. She waited. When I was asleep she came down. Then she remembered—afterwards—that I might have been awake, and in case I had been she volunteered her information, coupling it with an explanation. Yes, and I’ve not told you this,” he went on. “She hinted that she might get into trouble if I passed the information on.”
For the first time, Nadine looked definitely alarmed.
“Her reason was that she would be blamed for having disturbed me,” added John quickly. “Good enough, do you think?”
“I—don’t know,” murmured Nadine. “I don’t know any more than you do. Excepting that, whatever happens, I stand by Anne.…John, we must get this settled. The difference between you and me is that if I have an instinct I believe in I’m ready to follow it blindly, but you’ve got to prove yours. Yes, that hateful conscience will have to be appeased, and I know only one way. I won’t be a minute!”
She left the room abruptly. She was away five minutes. When she returned, Harold Taverley was with her.
“Now, then, Harold,” she said, when they were seated, “I’ve explained the position to you, and here is the man. It’s your move!”
Taverley nodded. He did not show any discomposure, but John had never seen him look so grave.
“Yes, it’s my move,” he answered, “and I’m going to begin with a general statement. If there’s been any wrong-doing in this—matter of Anne—I’m the chief culprit.”
“I can’t associate you with wrong-doing of any sort,” replied John sincerely.
“Thanks. That’s nice of you,” said Taverley. “Just the same, don’t bank on it. One thing I never interfere with is another man’s conscience. And I won’t interfere with yours—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, cut the philosophy!” interrupted Nadine. “This isn’t a question of ethics! It’s a question of—how much we love Anne!”
“I’d commit murder for her,” answered Taverley, “though I don’t happen to have done so.”
“What have you done—if anything?” demanded Nadine.
“I’ll tell you in a minute. But first I’d like to ask Foss a question or two. You’ve said nothing whatever to the police about Anne’s coming down last night?”
“Nothing at all,” responded John.
“Have you kept anything else back?”
“No—I don’t think so.”
“What about the morning—before the meet? Were you questioned about that?”
“No. Should I have been?”
“Well, let us pretend you are being questioned now, and that I am the inspector—and I have just asked you to tell me all you saw through that door—which I remember was open part of the time—between about a quarter-past and half-past.”
John took his mind back. He recalled the details with perfect clearness.
“At about a quarter-past ten,” he said, “Lady Aveling was talking to me in here. The door was open. I saw Anne pass through the hall and go towards the stairs.”
“Correct,” replied Taverley.
“Then Lady Aveling left me, and Mr. Rowe looked in. I was still keeping my eye on the bit of the hall I could see—you know, watching people pass by—” Nadine smiled to herself; she knew the particular person for whom John had been watching. “And while Rowe was talking to me, I saw Bessie go towards the staircase.”
He paused. Taverley sat on an impulse to ask a question. Nadine, watching Taverley, read both the impulse and the restraint. John felt the atmosphere suddenly tighten.
“Bessie was carrying a tray,” he said. “I noticed a blue water-bottle on it.…Then Rowe went, and you came in, Nadine. Our chat was cut short by Miss Fermoy-Jones. That woman—oh, well, never mind! You left, and she jawed on and on—five minutes, perhaps, but it seemed five hours—and during that time I saw you and Anne come down, Taverley—and then Anne suddenly left you and went upstairs again, I think—she looked a bit queer. A moment after she had gone up, Chater came down. Then you came to my door, Taverley, Miss Fermoy-Jones left, and you waited till Anne returned.”
“Did you notice anything particular about Anne’s mood?” asked Taverley quietly.
“I should say I did!” answered John. “It was quite different. Almost—hysterically gay. She lugged you off—and that was that.”
“But there’s something more,” suggested Taverley. “I can see you haven’t quite finished.”
“Yes, I noticed one thing more. Bessie again. Coming down with the tray. The blue water-bottle was on it, broken.”
“I wonder why you noticed that?” murmured Taverley.
“A broken water-bottle—wouldn’t anybody notice it?” replied John. “I’d noticed it originally because it was rather a pretty one.”
“It was Mrs. Morris’s water-bottle,” said Taverley slowly. “Her special one. Anne broke it because she had poisoned the water.”
Nadine’s hand went up to her heart. John sat very still. Taverley did not continue for a few moments. His mind seemed suddenly to have stopped. Then he frowned at himself and went on:
“Anne’s story is very simply told, but probably no one could ever tell the agony behind the simplicity. Probably no one will ever know Anne’s character completely. I know her as well as anybody, but there are depths that beat me. I think she ought to have been a boy. Her parents wanted her to be. But, thank God, she isn’t! She’s a mixture of hardness and softness. Each hates the other, and tries to cheat it. But—my view is—the softness wins. She has spent hours and hours with her grandmother, being that grand old woman’s companion while she suffers—and then coming out of the room blinded with tears. She hides her tears, just as her grandmother hides her suffering.…My God—yes—I understand Anne!”
His voice had become a little unsteady. He continued, almost apologetically:
“I expect I’m a bit soft myself where those two are concerned.…Anne told me what she had done while we were riding together on the afternoon of the meet. I speak as though it were weeks ago, yet it was only yesterday! She knew her grandmother wanted to die—she had told Anne so often, though never complainingly—and Anne found the way of granting the wish on Friday, during dinner. She had left the table during the first course, because she had forgotten to say good-night to her grandmother. On her way down she overheard a conversation between Thomas and the cook. She found that the cook kept some painless poison in a cupboard over his bed. She decided to steal it that night. You interrupted her at her first attempt, Foss. At the second she succeeded.”
“I heard that Chater’s fingermarks had been found on the cupboard, Harold,” interposed Nadine.
“Yes—by a rare bit of good fortune,” answered Taverley. “I think he must have intended to steal the poison, and then changed his mind. He may have overheard the conversation, too—he was out of the dining-room at the time—or he may have got on to it in some other way through Thomas. Anyhow—as we know—he didn’t steal it. Perhaps he thought better of it, or the cook may have moved at the crucial moment and made him lose his nerve. Anne nearly lost hers.
“The poison was in a little glass tube. Anne kept it on her. All night she was torn with doubts. But next morning, just before the meet, she went in to see her grandmother again, and found her in such pain that she made up her mind to take the first opportunity to bring the old lady peace.
“The opportunity occurred as she left the room. Outside, on that wall-table you may have noticed, Nadine, was Mrs. Morris’s water-bottle. Bessie had brought it up, and—as I have since found out—had been called by Chater into his room. Anne seized the chance impulsively, poured the contents of the tube into the bottle—and a second later I came along, found her in a very agitated state, and brought her downstairs.
“Well, as you know, she went up again. Panic had got hold of her. She went up to smash the bottle. And that, she expected, would end the incident.
“But I knew—and so did you, Nadine—that something was wrong with Chater’s complexion when we came upon him at Mile Bottom. And, remember, I had just heard Anne’s story. While you were both away getting help, I had a search, and I found Chater’s flask a little way off. He had obviously drunk from it before falling—otherwise the flask would still have been in his pocket. He had obviously taken the poison in that drink. And he had come down from his room a minute after Anne and I had come down, and before Anne had gone up again—they actually met on the stairs—and he had passed by the water-bottle on the table.
“The bedroom water-bottles had not yet been filled that morning. My own bottle was empty, I remember. Chater always drank his spirits diluted. The deduction was clear. He diluted his whisky from the bottle, and Anne did not notice in her hurry that some of the water had gone.”
He paused and shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, what would you have done?”
“Probably what you did,” answered Nadine, “only not half so well. What did you do?”
“Actually, very little—but, aided by other circumstances, it proved enough,” he answered. “I had made Anne give me the little glass tube, saying I would get rid of it. Instead of getting rid of it, I eventually stuck it in the lining of Chater’s hat. If I had thought of this at once I should have stuck it in his pocket, but by the time the idea came—when we had returned to the house—the hat was the only thing available, for by that time I couldn’t get near Chater’s body alone.”
“How did you manage to get near the hat?” inquired John.
“I brought that back myself,” Taverley answered. “That was easy. I also brought back the flask, though nobody knew this. At first I put it in a locked drawer in my room, but when the inspector interviewed me before dinner he got too interested in flasks. So, when he’d gone, I took it out of the drawer and kept it on me. Lucky I did. My room was searched while we were dining.”
“Where is it now?” asked John.
“Same place,” replied Taverley, touching his hip pocket. “It’s been thoroughly cleaned, but I’m not using it. You know, don’t you, Nadine, that I’ve had this old flask for years?”
“I gave it to you,” answered Nadine.
Taverley smiled rather wearily.
“All this seems thoroughly unscrupulous. Perhaps it is. I even told Kendall I’d heard the Chaters quarrelling in their room—as the Rowes actually did—and invented a remark I pretended I’d caught. But I’m not shielding a murderer, you know. Just helping events to take their happiest course, and trying to avoid increasing the tragedy. My greatest difficulty was to direct Kendall’s attention to the hat. I mentioned it casually to him, with no result. To have done so deliberately would have been fatal.”
“But it was Bultin who looked in the hat,” said Nadine.
“Yes—after I’d played a little trick on him to give him the idea.”
There was a pause.
“What’s Anne’s own attitude?” asked John.
“I�
�ve had the devil’s own time with Anne,” Taverley answered. “But I convinced her at last that her confession would just about crush things here, and that if anything happened to her, a county cricketer would drown himself. Well, Foss, what about it?”
“Don’t ask fool questions,” replied John.
Two floors above, the subject of their discussion was sitting by her grandmother’s bed.
“Here’s that piece, Grandma,” she said. “The squiggly blue bit. I’m beating you this time—I’m finding them all!”
She looked up and smiled. Her grandmother smiled back. Peacefully and motionlessly. Suddenly Anne’s heart began thumping like a great hammer. The next moment her face was buried in the bed, and she was sobbing with a wild, unbearable joy.
Chapter XXXIII
Death and Life
“And now, John,” said Nadine, entering his room late that evening, “us!”
“That’s what I’ve been wanting to talk about more than anything else,” replied John. “Do you know, Nadine, we haven’t talked about us since the evening you brought me here!”
“Two evenings ago,” she reminded him, as she sat down.
“It seems more like two years,” he answered. “Lord, what a lot has happened since then! Have you reckoned up the tragedies?”
“Yes, and I can only find one.” He stared at her. “The death of poor Haig. Tell me, John, is Mr. Chater’s death a tragedy? Don’t be hypocritical. I want your true answer.”
“I don’t think the world’s poorer by it,” John admitted.
“And Mrs. Chater’s?”
“One can feel sorry for her—though once you told me it was difficult.”
“I was wrong. I can feel sorry for her now. And that makes me all the more convinced that her death isn’t a tragedy. She’d have had a stickier end in a lunatic asylum. Yes, and after a heart-to-heart with Zena Wilding, I think the same might be said of Bultin’s ‘Body No. One.’ By the way, Zena told me Lord Aveling was backing her play, and that Lady Aveling is all for it. So that doesn’t sound like a tragedy, either.”
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