The next step, obviously, was to see Nicholas Crane. Humbleby telephoned his flat in Mayfair, but there was no reply. Application to his mother’s house had better results: he had driven there, it seemed, as soon as he had seen The Evening Mercury.
Humbleby collected certain chemicals and apparatus from the Yard’s laboratories—a consequence, this precaution, of his unwilling respect for Fen’s intelligence—and at six-thirty set out for Aylesbury.
He came to Lanthorn House, the residence of Mrs. Crane, as the last light was dropping over the western horizon. The house lay embowered in a cup-like confluence of low hills—so deeply embowered, indeed, that from the road it was not visible at all. Humbleby drove through dimly discerned heraldic gates, with adjacent stone-built lodges, and was at once among the trees of a large and unkempt estate. The carriage-way ran gradually and inexorably downwards; a gardener, trudging homewards in the company of an unattractive little girl, stopped and stared at Humbleby as he passed; massive rhododendron bushes loomed up on either side. And now, having at last achieved the floor of the hollow, Humbleby turned sharp left round a clutter of outhouses, and the featureless bulk of the house was in front of him. Between a phalanx of Corinthian pillars and a pedimented front door he brought the car to a halt and climbed out.
On the railway line which skirted the far side of the grounds a goods train whistled sardonically and clanked with deliberation out of earshot. Humbleby pressed the bell. Above his head the light of a caged electric bulb waxed and waned in rhythm with the pulsing of a heavy-oil engine which had become audible as soon as the car’s ignition was switched off. He waited, and presently, becoming irritable at the delay in admitting him, pressed the bell again; and he was about to supplement this by plying the ornate brass knocker when the door was opened to him by an old, improvident-looking butler.
“No Press,” said the butler promptly. “Be off with you, now, and quick about it.”
“I am the police,” said Humbleby coldly. “Please take me immediately to Mr. Nicholas Crane.”
The butler peered at him with suspicion.
“You’re not the one,” he said, “as came and took away Mr. Maurice’s medicine bottle. Don’t you try any tricks on me, now.”
“Stop arguing and let me in. It was one of my subordinates who was here before.”
“A nice character you are to ’ave subordinates,” said the butler resentfully. “I’ll bet they love you like a father… Well, I’ll ’ave to admit you, I s’pose. Come on in and don’t keep me standing ere ’alf the night.”
Thus graciously inducted, Humbleby climbed the three shallow treads to the threshold and stepped inside. A mass of gleaming white statuary confronted him; the room, large and high as a gymnasium, was disposed about it like a frame. Faraday, the statuary might be; or Samuel Rogers; or just conceivably Palmerstone. Seated, it stared apprehensively at the door, as though anticipating the arrival of duns or bailiffs. Its base pinned a large though inferior Turkey carpet to the parquet floor. Portraits in ponderous gilt frames conversed wordlessly, and with the effect of administering a decisive snub, across the top of its head. A number of well-polished but clearly functionless tables—of the sort described as ‘occasional’, but whose occasion somehow never arises—were ranged about the room’s periphery like sitters-out at a ball. And the only other furniture consisted of two immense Victorian hat and umbrella stands which, flanking the door, flourished a multiplicity of knob-crowned arms, Vishnu-like, at the ceiling.
“You just wait ’ere,” said the butler brusquely, “and I’ll go and find out what’s to be done about you.”
He departed, and Humbleby resigned himself patiently to waiting; his profession had long since inured him to kicking his heels in ante-rooms at the pleasure of householders a great deal less cultivated and estimable than himself—and one usually, he reflected, got one’s own back on them in the end. Comforted by this inexplicit prospect of retribution, Humbleby glanced idly up at the ceiling, where a number of ethereally graceful gods and goddesses were rioting about in one of those complicated and implausible intrigues which were apparently the main preoccupation of Olympus’ waking hours. Angelica Kaufmann, perhaps; it was quite good enough for that. And to judge from this hallway, the rest of Lanthorn House would probably exhibit a very similar mingling of the aesthetically desirable and the aesthetically null… It did not belong to Mrs. Crane, of course: she had rented it six months ago from Lord Boscoign, latest and probably last holder of an irremediably obscure barony, whose grandfather had refurnished it in its present style by dint of selling the near-by village, and who was now living precariously on its rent in a Harrogate boarding-house. A place as large as this, Humbleby reflected, must cost a good deal to run these days. So also must racehorses—and he had learned that these were Mrs. Crane’s chief interest in life. So a windfall of fifty thousand pounds would very likely come in useful, and…
But at this point Humbleby’s meditations were interrupted by the reappearance of the butler.
“They’ll see you,” said the butler, with the air of one whose good news is much against his inclination. “They’ll see you now.” He observed that Humbleby was removing his hat and coat. “Chuck those down anywhere. And get a move on, will you? I’ve got other things than you to attend to.”
“Until I choose to be ready, you most certainly haven’t,” said Humbleby.
“Bossy, aren’t you?” the aged creature snarled, “You just wait till the revolution, that’s all. That’ll finish you and your sort.”
“There is not going to be any revolution.”
“No, I don’t think so either,” said the butler unexpectedly. “And more’s the pity… Don’t you go trying to make a complaint about me,” he warned. “They won’t listen to you, because if they sacked me they’d never get another like me.”
“And thankful,” said Humbleby.
The butler considered this, and when he spoke again his tone was confiding.
“No, you’re wrong there,” he said. “They’re snobs, see? They’d rather have a stinking rotten butler like me,” he said with candour, “than none at all.”
“Yes, well, stop talking and take me to see them.”
“All right, cock.” The advance of old age had apparently induced in the butler that volatility of temperament most commonly associated with youth, and by now he was quite affable. “Keep your wool on. I’ll look after you, never fear. This way, this way. And watch out for the mats, or you’ll trip and do yourself a mischief.” He tottered cheerfully away, and Humbleby followed.
The reception-room into which he was conducted was about the size and shape of an average cinema. The gallery of a mezzanine floor encircled it on three sides. There were more pictures in gilt frames—one of a horse, one of a blurred, crepuscular landscape, one of an eighteenth-century actor, more than twice life-size, starting up in exaggerated terror from a satin-covered couch. These, presumably, represented the taste of the present Lord Boscoign’s grandfather. But there was also, withdrawn in a corner as if attempting to dissociate itself from the general decorative scheme, what looked very much like a Veronese. And there was more statuary—though here it was on an altogether discreeter and less forbidding scale than the nineteenth-century notability who so remorselessly scrutinised the inside of the front door. Faded, indifferent tapestry covered such of the wall-space as the paintings had been able to spare; an eight-foot settee and a variety of chairs stood in front of the fireplace; and in the fireplace itself—at whose sides two nude figures of surprisingly indeterminate sex struggled courageously to sustain, on the napes of their necks, an elaborate overmantel—there was a small log fire which hissed and flared sulkily.
Inside the door the butler halted, made a feeble attempt to look imposing, and after a little thought said:
“‘Ere ’e is. This is ’im.”
This task performed, he retired, inadvertently slamming the door behind him; and across broad acres of carpet Humbleby advanced on the g
roup of people who stood or sat by the fire.
Nicholas Crane, sprawled on the long settee, looked up as he approached.
“Hallo, Inspector,” he said. “Come and join the conference. And have some sherry.”
“I won’t for the moment, thank you, sir.” Humbleby had not intended to speak stiffly, but after the Mercury’s revelations he could feel no enthusiasm for Nicholas, and the words sounded unfriendly despite himself. “Not for the moment,” he reiterated in more mollifying tones.
“Well, anyway, sit down.”
Humbleby sat down and surveyed the gathering. Apart from Nicholas, Medesco was the only person present whom he knew—and he was slightly surprised to find Medesco on such intimate terms with the family that he could be admitted to an assembly whose purpose was clearly to discuss the Mercury’s thunderbolt. Medesco sat with his great height and bulk overflowing a small chair, and with a cigar in the corner of his mouth; his small saurian eyes, framed between the formidable brow and the smooth, fat cheeks, gazed on Humbleby coldly and unblinkingly.
“Well, Inspector,” he said. “We’re in the thick of it, as you’ll have guessed. You shall sit by and pick up the crumbs.”
Nicholas nodded.
“I’m sorry we’re not able to help you by having Madge here as well,” he said. “If she was here, all the dirty linen could be washed at one go. But she hasn’t got in touch with us, and there’s no reply from the Doon Island number. Probably she hasn’t even seen the blasted paper.”
A little bald man, who was hovering at his side, gave a monitory cough.
“Now, now, Mr. Crane,” he interposed. “We must be careful what we say, mustn’t we? Very, very careful indeed.”
Nicholas sighed.
“This is my lawyer,” he said to Humbleby. “Mr. Cloud. He’s quite a nice chap in the normal way, but at the moment he’s just a quivering mass of legal circumspection.”
“In your own interests, Mr. Crane!” Mr. Cloud burst out. “In your own interests! If we are going to sue this newspaper—”
“We’re not,” said Nicholas briefly.
“But this is absurd! An action would lie. I can assure you that an action would lie. The greater the truth, the greater the libel. This is to say that—”
Mr. Cloud checked himself, belatedly conscious that in the present context his utterance of this forensic saw had been scarcely tactful. And Nicholas laughed.
“You don’t spare my feelings, do you, Cloud?” he said. “But never mind. The Mercury’s imputation is true, and for that reason—”
“Mr. Crane, I beg of you—”
“—for that reason, I shan’t attempt to contest it.” Nicholas smiled wryly. “This scandal is no more than I deserve… Do you believe in atonement, Inspector?”
“As a Christian of sorts,” said Humbleby cautiously, “I must.”
“Well, putting up with this will be my atonement for that wretched girl’s death. Not a very adequate one, I’m afraid, but thoroughly deserved.”
“You think the scandal will affect your career?” Humbleby asked.
“It will finish my career,” said Nicholas simply. “There are a great many very decent people in film business, and they’d no more work with me after this than they’d work with a leper.”
Humbleby looked at him curiously. His reaction was unexpected but inspiriting; it seemed that he was by no means lost to all decent feeling. And Nicholas, perhaps sensing the trend of Humbleby’s thought, shifted and reddened uncomfortably.
“Not that I want to make a great thing about it,” he added. “But you must understand quite clearly, Cloud”—his voice sharpened—“that I’m not going to bring an action for libel. That’s definite. If you try to argue about it, you’ll simply be wasting your efforts.”
His mother, who was standing in front of the fire and watching him thoughtfully, for the first time spoke.
“Madge will probably sue,” she said in a naturally husky voice. “And what will happen then?”
Eleanor Crane was a tall woman—as tall, almost, as Medesco, but slim and stately. She had a lean, greyish face, untidy hair in which streaks of white mingled with the dull gold, and pale green eyes with a certain glint of humour in them. Humbleby had expected her to be in mourning for her son Maurice, but in fact she wore a coat and skirt of purplish-brown tweed, with rough wool stockings and brogue shoes.
“No, I’m not in black, Inspector.” She had rightly interpreted his appraising glance. “Maurice was only my step-son, and I had no great liking for him, I’m afraid. He was a rake, and stupid.”
“You agreed,” said Humbleby, “to his bringing Miss Scott to stay here at Christmas.”
“Certainly. But as soon as she arrived I took her aside and warned her directly of what she could expect if she didn’t look out for herself. I told her of Maurice’s habits, and I told her that if she gave in to him she needn’t look forward to either marriage or advancement in films as a reward. She took,” said Eleanor Crane coolly, “very great offence at my suggestions. And I understand that she paid no attention to my warnings. But if she wanted an ally against Maurice’s intentions, she knew where to come, so I don’t consider I shirked my obligations at all… Where apparently I have shirked them is in my children’s upbringing. They’re all deplorable in one way or another—except, of course, David, who is merely dim.”
David Crane was the only person there who had not yet opened his mouth. He was a young, thick-set man, going prematurely bald, of a type that emanates social uncertainty like ectoplasm.
“Oh, l-look here, m-mother,” he protested.
“But let’s get back to the point,” said Eleanor Crane tranquilly; she was more immediately prepossessing, Humbleby thought, than any other member of the family he had encountered so far. “The point is, as I’ve said, that Madge will probably sue. And that means that if you, Nicholas dear, are going to persist in your very creditable policy of self-sacrifice, you’ll have to go into the witness-box against her. It will make a very depressing spectacle, and one which I think ought to be avoided if possible. Mr. Cloud, what line would my daughter’s lawyer be likely to take in a libel action against The Evening Mercury?”
Mr. Cloud, gratified at being appealed to, puffed himself up importantly.
“The publication of this letter,” he said, “is calculated to bring Miss Crane into hatred, ridicule and contempt. So much is obvious, there would be no difficulty in proving it, and for that reason the action might possibly succeed. I refer, of course, to a civil action only. Alternatively, or in addition, Miss Crane might apply to a police court for a summons for criminal libel. If she does that, then the defendants will not have to prove that the letter is true—since in criminal libel that matter is largely irrelevant—and it is conceivable that Mr. Crane here would not be involved at all. On the other hand—”
“Quite so, Mr. Cloud.” With some address, Eleanor Crane nipped this nascent homilectic in the bud. “But what I’m trying to ascertain is whether a civil action brought by my daughter would be likely to succeed. You say it ‘might possibly’. What could prevent it from succeeding?”
“Proof,” Mr. Cloud answered gloomily, “that the letter was true.”
“Well, you’re acquainted with the circumstances of the affair. Could such proof in fact be produced?”
“Yes, I rather think it could,” said Mr. Cloud even more gloomily. “So long as Mr. Crane persists in asserting the letter’s veracity, that is. Now, if he were to join Miss Crane in bringing the action—”
“I am not,” said Nicholas firmly, “going to do anything of the sort.”
“And in that case,” said his mother, “my daughter’s action would probably fail?”
Mr. Cloud nodded. “I’m afraid that that is so, yes.”
“Well, if you think that, no doubt her lawyer will think it also. And I believe she has just sufficient sense to take his advice. The remaining problem is, will she apply for a summons for criminal libel?”
&nb
sp; “As an act of vengeance, perhaps,” said Mr. Cloud somewhat histrionically. “She could not, of course, by that method obtain monetary restitution, and I doubt if it would help to salvage her reputation.”
“Then the position is clear at last.” Eleanor Crane took her sherry from a niche in the overmantel and sipped it. “Nicholas is intent on immolation and will not take any sort of action. And Madge cannot succeed in a civil suit without his co-operation, and a summons for criminal libel would do her no earthly good. I think that since that’s so she’ll cut her losses and keep quiet—don’t you, Aubrey?”
Medesco grunted. “The girl’s a conceited, over-sexed little ass,” he opined dispassionately, “and the power she wields over everyone in film business has gone to her head. In my view she’s perfectly capable of cutting off her nose to spite her face. But I suggest that the thing to do is to stop theorising about it and wait until we can get in touch with her.”
“And in the meantime?” Nicholas asked.
“In the meantime,” said Humbleby, “I think you should take certain precautions, Mr. Crane.”
“Precautions…? Oh, ah. Yes, I see what you mean. Your Professor Fen made the same suggestion on Saturday. Your idea is that in view of what the Mercury has published I’m likely to be the poisoner’s next victim—or possibly Madge.”
“There is that possibility,” said Humbleby seriously, “and it would be silly to neglect it.” He frowned. “In fact, your failure to get through to Miss Crane at Doon Island is worrying me slightly. If you’ll be so good as to take me to a telephone I think I’ll ring up the Doon Island police and ask them to pay her a visit simply as a precaution.”
It was Nicholas who led him to the telephone. Humbleby returned, having done what was necessary, in five minutes, and found them silent and embarrassed—a consequence, perhaps, of something that had been discussed while he was away.
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