"You've written to the police? About what?"
"Come here," Celia requested. "Follow me."
On their right, where the row of trees was interrupted, he could discern a very tall privet hedge closed off by iron railings. In the fence there was a wide gate, left ajar. The gate creaked as he followed Celia's white dress through a deep arch in the hedge, round a corner, and into an open space.
It was a children's playground: surrounded on three sides by hedges, on the fourth by another iron fence which showed dim fields of the park beyond. It was not large. Moonlight lay eerily on the iron ribs of swings, on a children's roundabout swing with a circular platform, on a forlorn-looking seesaw, on a very large oblong sandbox set a little below ground. The ground, scuffed and trampled free of grass, exhaled a dry earthy smell on that hot night No place, deserted, could have seemed more secret or more desolate; it might have been a playground for dead children.
Celia lifted her arms above her head, in a gesture of passionate emotion. He could not see her face. She stopped by the roundabout swing; on a sudden impulse she stretched out her hand and set the swing turning. It creaked a little, the platform rising and falling as it swept around.
"Don," she said, "Margot didn't die of cerebral hemorrhage. She died of poison. She committed suicide."
He had been expecting something like this, of course. Yet all the same it took him aback. He had been expecting .. .well, what had he been expecting?
"She killed herself, I tell you!" cried Celia.
"But why should Margot kill herself?"
"Because of the life Thorley'd been leading her." The swing had been slowing down; Celia gave it another fierce turn. Then her voice grew quiet "Tell me, Don. You say Thorley is, or was, your best friend. How would you describe him?"
"I'm not sure. He's changed. I think this determination to get on in life has gone to his head. But at least: easy going, rather phlegmatic, and good-tempered."
"You really think that?"
"It’s what I've always believed, anyway."
"I saw him hit her across the side of the face with a razor strap," said Celia. "And then throw her across a chair and start to strangle her. That had been happening, off and on, whenever he got really annoyed, for three or four years."
This was growing worse and worse. The creak of the roundabout jarred thinly, under a placid moon.
"And it wasn't as though," Celia's voice faltered, "she had ever done anything to deserve it. Margot was so—so inoffensive. That's the word. She never meant anybody the least harm. You know that, Don."
He did know it
"She may not have been very intelligent or 'artistic' in Danvers Locke's sense of the term," Celia went on. "But she was so beautiful, Don! And such a good sport that. . ." Celia stopped. "On Thorley's side, I'll do him the justice to say that so far as I know there wasn't any other woman. It was simply meanness, and spitefulness. Thorley was too prudent to take out his ill-temper on anybody else. So it had to be Margot."
Holden tried to marshal his wits in this nightmare. "And you say," he demanded, "this had been going on since—?"
"Since about a year after Mammy Two died. Margot was frantic about it; she used to weep, when nobody saw her. But she would never tell me anything about it, when I tried to ask her. I was only the Little Sister, though I'm twenty-eight now."
"Was Margot still in love with him?"
Celia shivered. "She loathed him. And do you think Thorley was ever once, for one minute, in love with her? Oh, no. It was the money, and the social side of it. In your heart, Don, you must have guessed that."
"But, hang it, Celia, why was all this allowed to go on? Why didn't she leave him? Or divorce him?"
Celia gave another savage turn to the swing, whose shadows moved up and down on the scarred brown earth. Then Celia swung round to face him.
" 'Extreme physical cruelty.'" Her lips made a movement of distaste. "It sounds almost funny, doesn't it, when you read about it in the newspapers? 'My husband hit me about,' like a brawl in a cheap pub. It isn't funny; it's horrible. But some women are so dreadfully respectable, and have such a horror of what people will say, that they'll go on and on and put up with anything, rather than have a soul know it isn't a happy marriage.
"Margot had a horror of any kind of scandal. So has Thorley, of course; more so than Margot. But the—the source was different Thorley's frightened of the social effect on his friends. He's standing for Parliament, you know, at the next Frinley by-election. But Margot’s was a sort of .. . of ..."
"Noblesse oblige?"
"Something like that. Something Mammy Two instilled into her." Celia's lips were wry in the moonlight, her face pallid, her eyes shining. "You see, Don: Margot was respectable. Whereas I'm not. No, don't smile; I'm not, really." Her voice rose. "But, oh, Don, what a relief it is to tell you all thisj What a blessed reliefl"
And once more, for the dozenth time, they were in each other’s arms: in a dangerous and exalted emotional state.
"Margot," Celia said, "would have died rather than say what was going on. And that's it, don't you see? She couldn't endure it any longer. So she took some kind of poison that the doctor wouldn't recognize as poison, and she—she did die. She died a 'natural' death."
Holden's heart was beating with a slow, heavy rhythm.
"Listen, Celia. Hadn't any other possibility occurred to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean Margot wasn't what I, or anybody else, would have called a suicidal type. Can't you see any alternative?" "What alternative?" "Murder," said Holden.
The ugly word, which under any other circumstances it might have been impossible to utter, sounded louder than it really was. It seemed to ring out amid the looming shapes of the children's swings, and the seesaw, and the sandbox. It had a curious effect
He felt Celia grow tense. Since her head was lowered, the fleecy brown hair brushing his cheek, he sensed rather than saw the sudden turn of her eyes, sideways, while she hardly seemed to breathe. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper.
"Why do you say that?"
"Just one or two things I noticed tonight There may not be anything in it" "Th-Thorley?"
"I didn't say Thorley." (But he had meant it). "I feel like a suspicious sort of hound," he burst out, "for thinking what I am thinking! All the same . . ."
"If it could be!" breathed Celia in a kind of ecstasy. "Oh, if only it could be! To see him hang, after all he made her suffer!" Celia shook her head violently. "I—I'd thought of that Don. Of course I had. But if s not true, I'm afraid. It can't be true."
"For the sake of argument, why not?"
Celia hesitated.
"Because," she answered, "I don't see why he should want her out of the way. I don't see any motive. I suppose you could say Margot was—was useful to him. And then there are so many other reasons! Margot’s changing her gown on the night she died, and the poison bottle openly on the shelf . . ."
"Wait a minute! What's all this about gowns and poison bottles?"
"You'll understand, dear, as soon as Dr. Shepton gets here. And finally, as a reason why I'm sure it wasn't Thorley, I—I'd better tell you Margot tried to kill herself once before."
(Black waters, swirling and rising! That metaphor of his, fancied this evening, had come from a true instinct.) "Once before," Holden echoed dully. "When was that?" "Over a year before she really did die." "And on that occasion how did she try to kill herself?" "She took strychnine."
"Strychnine!"
'Tes. I know it was strychnine, because I looked up the symptoms she had. Margot had tetanic convulsions: they end in lockjaw, the book said. But Dr. Shepton managed to save her. Afterward Margot admitted it to me, or as good as." Celia threw back her head. "Don, what's wrong?"
"There's something very much wrong. If I remember cor’ recdy, the only kind of book Margot ever opened was a detective story or a murder trial?"
"We-elL no. For a long time she'd been terribly keen about palmi
stry and fortune telling. But she did read murder trials. I don't I loathe them. And it’s odd you should mention murder trials, because ..."
"In fact," he was searching his memory, "I once recall talking to Margot about the trial of Jean Pierre Vaquier. That's a strychnine case."
"Is it? That's out of my line, I'm afraid. But what about it?"
"Strychnine, Celia, is the most agonizingly painful poison in the register. Nobody in his or her senses would think of using it for suicide. Margot would never have done that of her own free will!"
Celia stared at him.
"But—Margot as good as admitted it to me, though she didn't dare say too much! I thought Thorley'd been given a good scare over it Because, only a few weeks after she was up and about, Margot began to grow like her old self again (only far happier) before she was married. Happy, and bright eyed. That lasted until... well, until almost before she died."
Celia paused. With another sharp change of mood, her eyes grew fixed.
"Listen!" she urged. "Don't speak! There's somebody coming in from the road now!"
CHAPTER V
Quickly Celia drew away from him. There was, in fact, a distant noise of somebody blundering about in the around-the-corner entrance to the hedge. But, when the newcomer emerged into the moonlight, Holden could not fail to recognize Dr. Eric Shepton.
Dr. Shepton was a tall, heavily built, stoop-shouldered man with a near-sighted air and a somewhat shambling gait But he was still vigorous; the near-sighted eyes behind his pince-nez could at times be disconcertingly keen.
His bald head shone, indistinguishable in color from the clear-white hair above his ears. Winter and summer he wore the same heavy dark suit, with gold watch chain across the waistcoat; he was now carrying an old Panama hat. He stood blinking and peering, turning his head from side to side, until he caught sight of Celia.
Celia's inexplicable terror, which should have disappeared when she found the newcomer was only Dr. Shepton, was increasing. Holden, startled, saw a look of panic flash across her face: as though she wanted to wring her hands, as though she had just remembered something which in a welter of emotions had been forgotten.
"I should have warned you," she whispered.
And there was worse. As Celia called out to the doctor, Holden detected a new note in her voice—a note of sheer defensiveness.
"I'm over here, Dr. Shepton!" she said in a high, breathless voice. "Terribly sorry to drag you to such an odd place at a time like this."
There was a shambling noise of Dr. Shepton's big shoes on the sandy earth as he moved toward them.
"Er—not at all," he disclaimed, as though appointments in a playground at such a time were all in his routine. He had, as always, that half-apologetic air which was a relic of his Victorian boyhood: when the social status of medical men, for some reason, was not very high. But he kept his eyes fixed steadily on Celia. "After all," he added, "it’s quite close to your house. Bit difficult to find, though. I'm a countryman. London upsets me."
Then his near-sighted eyes blinked round, discovering for the first time that Celia had a companion. Since the doctor had seen Holden not more than three or four times in past years, he knew nothing of the latter’s history or supposed death; no explanations were necessary.
"Dr. Shepton," continued Celia in that same breathless voice, "this is Mr.—I beg your pardon! Its 'Sir Donald' now, isn't it? Dr. Shepton of course you remember Sir Donald Holden?"
"Yes, of course," murmured the doctor, who clearly didn't
"Er—how do you do, sir?" And he made a slight gesture with the ancient Panama hat
"He's—he's just come back from abroad," said Celia.
"Ah, indeed. Fascinating place, abroad. Pity one can't go there now." Dr. Shepton became brisk. "And now, my dear, if this gentleman will excuse us?"
"Nol" cried Celia. "I want Don to stay!"
"But I understand; my dear, you wished to see me privately."
"I tell you, I want Don to stay!"
Dr. Shepton twisted round courteously. "Had you any special reason, sir, for wishing to ... er ... ?"
"Sir," returned Holden in the same formal, way, "I have the very best reason in the world. Miss Devereux, I hope, will shortly become my wife."
Dr. Shepton, even though clothed in age and (an air of) absent-mindedness, could not repress a start, and a worried look which gave Holden a momentary qualm. The doctor put up a hand to his pince-nez.
"Ah, indeed," he smiled. "That's fine, of course. Many congratulations. At the same time, if you'll forgive me, we mustn't be too hasty about these things; must we?"
"Why not?" asked Holden.
The two words hung out, a whipcrack and a challenge, in that quiet place. Dr. Shepton gave the appearance of not having heard.
"And what my dear," he asked Celia in his patient kindly voice, "did you want to see me about?"
"I," Celia glanced at Holden, and faltered, "I wanted to tell you about the night Margot died."
"Again?" inquired Dr. Shepton.
"Listen, my dear." Putting his ancient Panama hat on the back of his head, Dr. Shepton took one of Celia's hands and enclosed it in both of his. "On Christmas day, shortly after your poor sister's death, you came to me and told me —er—what happened that night Don't you remember?"
"Of course I remember!"
"Then come, my dearl Why distress yourself by going all over it again, six months after if s finished and done with?"
"Because there's new evidence! Or there will be, tomorrow night" Celia hesitated. "Besides, now Don's back with me, I want him to hear about it! I've been telling him . . ."
Dr. Shepton peered sideways. "Have you told this gentleman, Celia, about Mr. Marsh's brutal treatment of your sister?" “Yes!"
' And about the—er—attempt at strychnine poisoning some considerable time before Mrs. Marsh died?" "Yes!"
"And about your own experience in the Long Gallery, among the portraits, following Mrs. Marsh's death?"
"No!" said Celia. Even in the moonlight, Holden thought, her face was noticeably paler. "No. I haven't said anything about that. But... dear God," she breathed, in a real prayer which went to Holden's heart in a stab of sympathy as deep as his overwhelming love for her, "won't anybody listen to what really happened on the night Margot was poisoned?"
"Why not let her tell it?" said Holden, in a voice that meant a good deal more than the words.
"As you like." Dr. Shepton looked at him curiously. "Perhaps that would be best. Yes, on the whole that might be best. Er—is there any place to sit down?"
There was no obvious place to sit down: unless (the grotesque thought occurred to Holden) they occupied several swings. But Celia was already looking, with a strange fixity, at the immense oblong sandbox, set about a foot below the level of the ground.
Slowly she walked over to the sandbox. Celia sat down on the edge of it, swinging her legs inside. Putting one hand on the ground on each side of it, she leaned back—supple, graceful, not so tall as Margot—to stare up at the moon. Dr. Shepton, without any sense of incongruity, humped down big and stoop-shouldered on one side of her. Holden was at the other side.
Celia lowered her eyes. The sand seemed to fascinate her. It was dry sand, in the ten days' intense heat following a wet June. Celia scooped up a handful, letting the sand run between her fingers.
"The sand, the lock, and the sleeping sphinx!" she said, suddenly and unexpectedly. Her laugh, clear and ringing, echoed eerily under the trees. "I can't help it It's awfully funny. The sand, the lock, and the sleeping sphinx!"
"Steady, my dearl" Dr. Shepton said rather sharply.
Celia brought herself up. "Yes. Of c-course!"
"You had something on your mind—eh?—about two days before Christmas?"
"Yes. Christmas," Celia repeated, and closed her eyes.
"I was telling Don," she went on, "that for a long time before then Margot had seemed so much happier, so much more like herself. She was so bright eyed, and danc
ed and hummed round the house so much, that I once said to her (only as a joke, of course), ‘You must have a lover.' Margot said no; she said she was going to a fortune teller, a Madame Somebody-or-other, in New Bond Street of all places, who told her tremendous things about the future.
"Then, about October, the trouble started again. There were dreadful scenes with Thorley; I could hear him shouting at her behind a closed door. Presently, at the beginning of December I think it was, things quieted down again. When we went down to Caswall for Christmas, we were at least all polite."
Celia kicked out at the sand.
"I love Caswall," she said simply. "When you go inside and close the door, you can imagine you're not in the present at all. The Blue Sitting Room! And the Lacquer Room! And the Long Gallery! The books and books and books! The old playroom, with the games and toy printing press with three different kinds of colored type!
"Anyway," she drew a deep breath, "it was only a small party. Maybe Thorley told you, Don? Margot and Thorley and myself; and, of course, Derek."
It was that "of course" which did it Holden could keep quiet no longer.
"I imagine," he observed, in his turn scooping up a handful of sand and flinging it violently down, "I imagine that 'Derek' refers to Mr. Derek Hurst-Gore, M.P.?"
Celia looked at him with wide eyes.
"Yes! Do you know Derek?"
"No," answered Holden with cold and measured vicious-ness. "I—merely—hate—the—swine." "But you don't know him!"
"That's just it, Celia. If I did know him, I probably shouldn't dislike him. If s just because I don't know him that I've been endowing him with all sorts of super and magnetic qualities. What's the ba—what's the fellow like?"
"He's rather nice, really. Tall, and with wavy hair"—she saw Holden's disgust—"good heavens, not effeminate! Just the opposite: rather jaw thrusting. He smiles a good deal, and shows his teeth. Don!" Consternation sprang into Celia's eyes, and she sat up. "You didn't think . .. ?"
"Well, you were his parliamentary secretary for some time, I understand. Weren't there rumors?" "Derek tried to make love to me. Yes." "I see."
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