Reflected Glory

by John Russell Fearn

  “Easy enough, but how much good will it do us?”

  “It should help to prove whether or not Miss Farraday was lying when she said she killed Clive Hexley.”

  “Huh? How can it?”

  “I’m not telling you that over the phone—too dangerous; but I wish you’d meet me this afternoon when you have that report through and we’ll have a little conference. Say— Guildford railway station at three. How would that suit?”

  “How do you expect the letter to reach me that quickly?”

  “Express mail. You’ll get it in under an hour.”

  “That’s different,” Calthorp said. “Okay, I’ll be there, if only to find out what I’ve missed.”

  With that he rang off and Castle chuckled to himself. He squeezed out of the kiosk and wandered back thoughtfully towards the bus stop; then as he passed a florist’s window he paused for a moment, turned back, and surveyed the floral offerings.

  “Hmmm,” he mused. “My word, yes! I think somebody or other once said that to be natural is the surest way of winning a per­son’s secrets.... Or did I just think of it? Anyway, it’s worth a try. What more natural than roses for an invalid?”

  He lumbered into the shop, bought two dozen red roses, and then came out again with them held like a posy in front of his capacious middle. With sublime disregard for the glances cast at him whilst in the bus he sat with the roses held before him—but dur­ing the journey his slowly creeping fingers had detected exactly where all the thorns were.

  He was still smiling when he rang the bell at Tudor Cottage and Elsa herself admitted him.

  “It’s a lovely day, Mr. Bennington,” she commented, preceding him into the lounge. “Just the day for getting a lot of writing done.”

  “Don’t you ever go out?” he asked her in surprise.

  “Just for the sake of it? No. If I go out there has to be a purpose behind it, otherwise it always strikes me as a waste of time— But what lovely roses!” Elsa broke off, and for a moment real womanly appreciation of the magnificent blooms took possession of her.

  “A dozen for you, my dear young lady, and a dozen for my wife,” Castle explained, beaming. “I do so hope you’ll accept—as a small token of appreciation for all you’ve done for us—”

  “Well—”

  “Of course you will,” Dr. Castle chuckled. “Now, if you have some kind of vase?”

  Elsa came forward to take the roses from him, and at the same moment he deliberately let them slip. Her reaction was as he had expected. She dived to save them, grabbed, as he too pulled up­wards. Then she winced and shook her fingers sharply as little spots of blood appeared on them.

  “Thorns?’ Castle asked in concern. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Farraday! Here—let me help you.”

  He dumped the roses on the table and with his handkerchief wiped away the blood spots. He found the girl looking at him seriously when at last he had desisted.

  “They’re only scratches;’ she smiled. “Nothing to worry about but they do sting for a moment— I’ll soon fix these up for you.”

  She gathered the roses, gingerly this time, and went with them into the kitchen. Castle stood pushing his handkerchief back into his pocket and smiling to himself; then he swung round at a sharp ringing on the front door.

  “I’ll go,” he called, as Elsa appeared in the kitchen door­way—and admitted the doctor.

  “Morning,” the G.P. greeted, in his dour fashion. “Any better news of your wife, Mr. Bennington?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Castle sighed. “Unless, that is, she has improved whilst I’ve been out. I haven’t seen her for a couple of hours and at that time she was complaining that she could hardly move.”

  “Well, we’ll have a look. Morning, Miss Farraday,” the doctor added, as Elsa appeared with the roses equally divided into two glass vases.

  Castle took one of them from her with a smile of thanks and followed the G.P. up the stairs. Just in time, as the door opened, Brenda and Mrs. Castle managed to look convincingly serious, and it was a striking contrast to the light-hearted conversation in which they had been indulging.

  “Ah, good morning, Mrs. Castle.” Dr. Phillips’ dourness re­laxed into his bedside manner. “And how are we?”

  “Dreadfully stiff, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Castle told him,

  “Mmm....” Phillips cocked an eye on Castle and, then Brenda.

  “All right, we’ll go,” the psychiatrist said, putting the roses on the table. “For you, my dear,” he added, beaming.

  “They’re lovely, Adam! They really are!”

  He nodded, took Brenda’s arm, and led her out of the room. Out on the landing he winked at her solemnly.

  “How much longer does this double-crossing business go on, dad?” she whispered. “I keep feeling that it’s all dreadfully mean towards Miss Farraday—and that doctor too, if it comes to that.”

  “There’s a difference between meanness and strategy, Brendy,” Castle reproved her. “Miss Farraday’s actions have been anything but straight, so we have to fight her with the same weapons. As for the doctor, if his skill isn’t equal to discovering that there is nothing whatever the matter with your mother—well, he deserves all that happens to him.”

  “But we’re not getting anywhere!” the girl protested, still keeping her voice low. “Mother’s told me about you wandering in and out of rooms in the night, and now you go off to buy her some roses. All very nice and pretty, but why doesn’t something exciting happen?”

  “What would you like—Miss Farraday brandishing a razor?” her father asked dryly.

  “Of course not! But I do expect to see some kind of result!”

  “You will, my dear, in time. I—” Castle stopped and his expression became serious as the bedroom door clicked and Dr. Phillips reappeared. He snapped the second catch on his black bag and thought for a moment.

  “Is it—bad?” Castle inquired gravely.

  “Bad? Good heavens, no!” Phillips gave his leathery smile. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Bennington, your wife, except for sup­erficial stiffness of which she complains, has nothing the matter with her. The trouble yesterday must have been just a sprain. The stiffness should wear off by afternoon, especially when she starts to move about.”

  “Oh, I see,” Castle nodded. “Thanks very much.”

  “Not at all. I shan’t need to call again. I’ve left a bottle of liniment in the bedroom.”

  “Much obliged, doctor—and send your account to me at Vance Chambers, Middle Temple, will you?” Castle called after him as he headed for the stairs.

  Phillips gave an acknowledging salute and went on his way down the staircase. Evidently Elsa had been waiting—and listening—in the hall for her voice came floating up.

  “I’m so glad Mrs. Bennington is so much better, doctor.”

  “No doubt of it. Another few hours and she’ll be skipping around like you or I.... Good day, Miss Farraday.”

  The front door closed and since Elsa did not come up the stairs she had evidently gone either to the lounge or the study. Brenda Castle gave her father a troubled look.

  “Unless I have the idea wrong, dad, that’s pulled our cork,” she sighed. “We’ve no longer any excuse for staying here.”

  Castle grinned. “Oh, don’t let that worry you. As a matter of fact I’ve got all I want out of this place.”

  He opened the bedroom door and followed the girl in; then he stood looking at his wife benignly. She averted her eyes.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Adam, but I did all I could to convince the doctor that I’m ill. He just wouldn’t have any.”

  “Which shows he’s a better man than I’d thought,” Castle commented. “However, don’t let it worry you. I’d guessed that he would probably not be fooled beyond this morning, which was why I crammed all my investigating into one night.... We’ll have to be on our way, that’s all. And Brendy, see if the passage outside is empty.”

  Brenda tiptoed swiftly to the door, opened it, and gla
nced outside. She closed it again and returned to the bedside with her thumb upturned significantly.

  “To keep up appearances, my dear,” Castle resumed, sitting on the bed edge beside his wife so that the mattress springs creaked, “We shall have to move on. I don’t want Miss Farraday to suspect for one moment that we are not all we seem to be. I have every­thing I need here, so you had better start making so-called attempts to crawl about, gradually improving as time goes on. By five o’clock this afternoon you will be quite fit to travel.”

  “To where?” Brenda asked.

  “London. We’re going back home. After lunch I shall depart, ostensibly in search of a car I can hire. I’ll find one all right and come back for you in it whilst you, Brendy, in the interval will do the packing. Whilst I am searching for the car I shall also meet Chief Inspector Calthorp in Guildford: I’ve already made an appointment over the phone.”

  Brenda rubbed her hands and, her blue eyes glowed with expect­ancy.

  “Then we’ll start to see something, eh Dad? You’ll bring the chief back here with you and—”

  “I shall do nothing of the kind,” Castle interrupted her calmly. “I am merely meeting Calthorp in order that I may exchange notes—and had I known I was returning to London I would have left it over until then. However, it’s too late now to telephone and stop him, so I’ll go through with it.”

  He got up from the bed and his wife rose several inches higher to the horizontal.

  “Brendy and I will go downstairs and tell Miss Farraday that we’re departing today,” he said. “You start to ‘stagger’ about, my dear—that is if you feel strong enough after the long rest in bed you’ve had!”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  At three o’clock that afternoon, according to plan, Dr. Castle was at Guildford railway station, and he and the Chief Inspector retired immediately to the nearest café, and there began conversa­tion over the coffee and cakes.

  “That powdered stuff you sent was blood,” Calthorp said, his lean face grim. “And it’s group A-B. The age of it is about five years.”

  “Mmm.” Castle contemplated a chocolate éclair longingly and then steeled himself and took a plain bun instead. “That’s what I’d hoped for. From it we may draw a certain significance.”

  “So you inferred over the phone, but since you haven’t yet told me where the stuff came from, I can’t see what you’re getting at. I suppose it belongs to something which Hexley owned?”

  “No; I think it is Miss Farraday’s blood,” Castle answered quietly. “The blood on that handbag with which she struck Hexley—so she said—was group A-B: that you have proved. This new stuff is also A-B. Had it been any other group but that rare one, I would have accepted the possibility of coincidence, but as things are I just can’t.”

  “In other words, you are suggesting that that blood on the handbag was not Hexley’s but Miss Farraday’s?”

  “Exactly, and in a way it is what I had expected, considering what I’ve found out about her.”

  Calthorp frowned. “But how did you get hold of this five-year-old blood deposit?”

  “I found it on a heavy belt in the basement, pushed away in a cupboard and forgotten. At some time, Calthorp, evidently five years ago according to forensic, I think that girl was mercilessly thrashed with that belt. What is more, I believe she was often shut up in that dark basement, fastened to an iron ring in the wall. That much I deduced from the ring being still fairly free of rust, from something scraping it—a rope or chain maybe—whereas everything else is corroding with rust. The blows with the belt were probably inflicted with such savagery that they drew blood, which of course got on to the belt.”

  “Sounds logical,” Calthorp agreed. “But at that time Miss Farraday must have been around twenty. Why on earth did she stand for such treatment? Why didn’t she go to the police, run away, or do something? She’s not a fool.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Castle suggested. “And answer it truthfully. If you had parents who were brutally strict, even cruel, and you were not naturally an audacious, courageous person, wouldn’t you obey their orders as much when grown up as when a child?”

  “Well—maybe,” Calthorp answered dubiously.

  “You would!” Castle assured him. “It is that which we learn in childhood which forms us as adults. It is then that the shape­less clay is fashioned for good or ill. It is then that the criminals and repressive types, and the men and women of vision, are created. Childhood and environment: those are the key factors. So, then, let us consider Miss Farraday....”

  Castle munched, the bun and took another drink of coffee before continuing:

  “Miss Farraday suffers in an extreme form from something which we all have in one way or another—inferiority complex. It is a condition brought on in its severest state by a childhood of unrelieved brutality. I’ve learned enough from Miss Farraday to know that her parents treated her exceedingly badly, and in that lonely house, miles from anywhere, they could get away with it. This ill-treatment, I think, continued until she reached twenty-three—then they died—and she was too cowed and afraid of them to expose the business....

  “But Nature had to strike a balance somewhere. Her individuality couldn’t be completely smothered because, deep down, there is a glowing fire within her. She sought refuge, as most repressed folk do, in her imagination. She became a writer, and—as she quite freely admitted to me—she made imaginary people suffer all that she had suffered herself, thereby relieving something of the enor­mous mental and physical strain she was enduring.”

  Calthorp lighted a cigarette and regarded Castle broodingly through the smoke.

  “Okay, doc, it makes sense so far. Carry on.”

  “Dominant in her mind were two things she had never enjoyed, or even glimpsed,” Castle continued, pondering. “One was the care­free irresponsibility of a normal child; and the other was dominance—this latter quality only developing when she realized she was an adult and had had no chance of proving it to the world. So what did she do when she realized that, suddenly, parental cruelty had gone? That she was alone in the world with nothing but the memory of bitter, pitiless years? She became, at intervals, the child she had always wanted to be—”

  “The miniature furniture!” Calthorp exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “That what you mean?”

  “That’s just what I mean. My guess is that when she knew she was free she went and bought all the small furniture somewhere, and the children’s clothes. Then at intervals—even to playing with dolls—she became a child, behaved as a child, and during such periods no doubt thought as a child. She was catching up on the carefree years she should have had. As for the financial cost of the furniture and the house itself, I assume she made it from her books. But—”

  Dr. Castle paused, and raised a plump finger to emphasize. “But, Calthorp, her normal adult mind was also at work, strugg­ling for domination. Hence the small furniture. She had, if you grasp the idea, to dominate—to be bigger than everything else around her. In that way her superiority and childish instincts were both satisfied at the same time....

  “Her longing for superiority also led her to choose the tough name of ‘Hardy Strong’ for her pseudonym on her books, which after the removal of her parents blossomed from frenzied secret scribbling into publishable stuff. But even that didn’t satisfy her— Her upbringing had made her afraid of drawing attention to herself, and yet she wanted to gain attention. As a writer she could do that and keep the world at bay as well. As the subject of an Academy painting she could also achieve it—and still hold the public at arm’s length. To my mind, nothing showed her inferiority complex more clearly than her abrupt breaking of the engagement when she knew that Clive Hexley could never bring her the reflected glory she had expected.”

  Castle pulled out his pipe, lighted it, and continued:

  “Hexley’s failure to provide that which she had expected must have left an awful void in her mind—a vast, unsatisfied longing. So she
chose yet another means of drawing attention to herself—still driven, mind you, by the urge to appear dominant in every situation. She tried to get herself arrested for the murder of Hexley, even though—had it come off—it would have meant that she herself was the direct target instead of it being reflected fame. Which gives us the measure of her desperate desire to achieve notice.

  “She had hoped that you would arrest her on suspicion, which would have given her notoriety. She knew you could never actually accuse her of murder without producing the body. Cleverly, she did not admit her supposed guilt all at once. She waited for an opportunity and let you suspect other people as well to commence with—then when she was ready she made a ‘confession.’ It struck me as being completely unconvincing that her reason for confessing was to stop you looking at her room with the miniature furniture. That, I think, was merely a very weak excuse, but the best one she could manage as a lever to make her confession seem as though it were being forced out of her. So.... Well, you know what she said.”

  “Then it’s her blood on the bag? But what about the hair? That was certainly Hexley’s. Where did it come from?”

  “I don’t know;” Castle answered broodingly. “And of course there is still the chance that Hexley also had the A-B blood group, though it’s a long coincidence. Until we find a sample of Hexley’s blood we can never prove our point—and how we’re to find that Lord knows! But believe me, if we can find it and prove it to be differ­ent from that on the bag, and then confront Miss Farraday with the fact, I’ll gamble she’ll break down and tell everything before I’m finished with her.”

  Through an interval Calthorp sat smoking pensively; then he said:

  “Concerning this blood-grouping business. Because you found the belt with blood streaks on it, it doesn’t say it was because Miss Farraday was the victim. It could have been somebody else. Or even, since she seems to have such a queer nature, it could have been she who wielded the belt on somebody else.”

  “Never in this world,” Castle answered quietly. “Make no mis­take, Calthorp, that girl is the quiet type, striving to gain attention by the least flamboyant method. possible. She’s not a sadist, though I admit that her desire to achieve domination in some form or other might lead her to extremes before she’s finished. I agree that I have not proved it is her blood on the belt, but I think we can.... For instance—”