The question was suddenly pitched at me and I hesitated. Not unnaturally. I was wholly indisposed to assist this wanton attempt to convict Basil of the shooting. But Appleby’s eye turned to me in mild inquiry and I felt bound to reply. For a moment, however, I fenced. ‘What do you mean: just what could he see?’
‘What could he see of someone on the terrace – standing out there, moving about, approaching the window?’
‘If someone were walking up and down near the balustrade he would see no more than an uncertain figure taking a stroll.’
‘Unidentifiable?’
‘I think so. In a dinner-jacket, certainly. But if the person faced the house and approached the window–’
‘Exactly!’ Geoffrey swept a triumphant glance round the company. ‘Common prudence would dictate that Basil should fire without revealing his identity to Wilfred. However good the shot, Wilfred might be able to gasp out the truth if help came quickly. Basil therefore could stroll up and down by the balustrade. He could stand by the balustrade looking over the garden. Under these conditions he would be no more to Wilfred than an unknown member of the household taking the air before dinner. Basil could not safely turn round and approach the window.’
The library was suddenly very still; fidgeting noises had ceased; the only sound was the click of a coal in the grate.
‘So consider,’ said Geoffrey, ‘just what was going on at the range yesterday morning. Just what sort of trick-shooting.’ He wheeled abruptly round. ‘Cambrell, are you wearing that watch now?’
This was sensation. I felt a cold trickle of horror travel down my spine. And Cambrell jumped much as if he himself were being accused. Then he nodded, fumbled at his left wrist and laid something on a table before him. It was a watch on a bright metal bracelet.
Geoffrey continued what had become his speech for the prosecution. ‘I was interested in the trick – the trick of shooting backwards that we heard of afterwards – and I managed to make out how it was done. Cambrell faced away from the target, tucked the barrel of his revolver under his left arm, and took his pipe from his mouth with his left hand. That was the key. The left wrist goes up, the cuff slips down and – if the light is right – the polished bracelet serves as a little mirror. With practice one can no doubt make a very fair shot.’
Horror grew upon me. I remembered the words with which I had myself heard Basil greet Cambrell’s trick: ‘A gunman’s trick: I think I could do it myself.’ Giving way to an irresistible impulse, I cried out: ‘It’s nonsense; it can’t be true!’
Curious glances were directed on me only for a moment: then everyone turned back to Geoffrey as I sank back in my chair. Whatever was to be thought of the plausibility of his story he had his auditory gripped.
‘So there you are, Basil stands by the balustrade, as if watching the garden or Cudbird’s beastly bottle. Then he takes a few paces backwards – it is a natural action if one is getting a view – and plays Cambrell’s trick on Wilfred. But he isn’t quite up to it and he muffs’ – Geoffrey paused slightly and looked round him almost defiantly – ‘he muffs the killing.’
For perhaps twenty seconds there was silence. Then a voice spoke quietly from the door. ‘An interesting theory indeed.’
We all turned round. It was Basil himself.
21
‘But it breaks down at the start.’
Basil was very pale and had a light bandage round his head; he advanced somewhat unsteadily as he spoke and lowered himself cautiously into a chair. Wale had risen hastily; this appearance was evidently against orders. But Basil peremptorily waved him back.
‘I shall be right enough. And I agree with Geoffrey in one thing: that this affair had better be cleared up at once – however painful that clear-up may be. And the first thing to establish is that Geoffrey’s case breaks down at the start. The motive does not exist.’
Appleby had settled back in his chair with the appearance of a man who expects that matters will now work themselves smoothly out. Leader was applying himself steadily to his notebook, for all the world as if he were reporting the most humdrum of political meetings. The Voice was looking at us each in turn with evident and deepening disapproval. My own eye was all for Basil. He was indeed a person somewhat cold and remote; that he might – as Geoffrey averred – be ruthless on occasion I was not at all disposed to doubt. I awaited what he had to say with a good deal of nervousness. And this was increased when I realized that beneath his calm Basil was angry – angry as I had never known him before.
‘The suggestion is that I shot Wilfred because I overheard him declare that he knew who could prevent my selling Belrive. But if Geoffrey were at all a man of affairs he would realize what nonsense that is. I am proposing to organize a scientific expedition to the financing of which I am at present giving virtually my whole time and thoughts. I have gone some way towards negotiating a sale of this property. Is it likely that I am incompetent to discover any possible legal impediment that there may be? Is it conceivable that at this stage Wilfred should be able to step in, waving some forgotten deed or paper, and stop the whole thing? Such an idea could only be evolved by a person’ – Basil paused and seemed to turn a shade paler – ‘by a person under the strongest promptings to evolve…something.’
It was at this point, I think, that most of us grasped the unpleasant truth that Basil was concerned with rather more than exculpating himself. I saw Horace Cudbird stir warily in his chair and look speculatively at Cambrell; I saw Lucy shiver and Mervyn Wale lean forward to throw a log on the fire. Then Basil’s level voice claimed all my attention again.
‘It is true that I heard what Wilfred said at tea. I went back to my study and thought about it. Wilfred is a person with a great deal to say for himself – the sort of person, in fact, to whom one does not always greatly attend. Nevertheless he holds a position of responsibility and has not the habit of talking at random in matters of this sort. What he had said was virtually this: that he himself could prevent my going forward with my particular plan for disposing of this estate. After careful thought I found that I could attach only one significance to such a statement. It surprised me.’
Basil made a long pause – less for effect, I imagine, than because the effort of talking was considerable. ‘In the present temper of this household other explanations are possible. I can see a certain type of mind’ – and Basil’s eye went fleetingly to his sister – ‘which might suppose that Wilfred was proposing to come at me with a gun. No doubt that would do the trick. But the actual explanation was less sensational. I say it surprised me. For Wilfred’s attitude to Belrive has always been somewhat off-hand; he has adopted the appearance of thinking the place an anachronism – an encumbrance on potentially valuable industrial land. For this reason – and perhaps because there was a residual coolness between us – I had held no direct communication with him on my plans. But now it was perfectly clear to me that in this I had been acting wrongly. It was perfectly clear that Wilfred, who is a very wealthy man, was prepared to buy Belrive himself. I took the opportunity of speaking to him, therefore, before going upstairs to change. It was as I thought. He said simply that he was interested in the project of a meteorological station and would buy Belrive at the highest figure I had so far been offered. And just as I preferred Cudbird’s proposal to Cambrell’s so I prefer Wilfred’s to Cudbird’s. And I know that you, Cudbird, will not suggest that anything had been concluded between us.’
Cudbird made what appeared to be a cordial affirmative reply. It was drowned however by the crisp voice of Anne. ‘Then I suppose it was Mr Cudbird who shot Wilfred. Geoffrey, why didn’t we think of that?
‘Yes,’ pursued Anne; ‘that is it.’ She turned a bright smile and a hard eye upon the Voice – having divined in him, no doubt, the most readily outraged person in the room. ‘How very clear. Mr Cudbird hears what Wilfred proposes to do, so he walks in at the window and shoots him. The situation is then as it was, and Mr Cudbird bottles Belrive. Belrive Beers are Best
. Try our Priory Entire.’ She turned to Cudbird. ‘You do see,’ she asked with innocent earnestness, ‘how my explanation has the grand virtue of simplicity?’
Cudbird contemplated her impassively. ‘Perhaps, Miss Anne, you will tell us how Sir Basil came to be attacked just now in the ruins. Maybe I have just formed the habit of guns and bludgeons?’
Anne shook her head. ‘That I leave to the police.’ Again she turned her smile on the Voice. ‘It would be nice that they should be left some explaining to do. Don’t they remind you of a row of powerful locomotive engines laid up in a yard? I can see the beginnings of a film of rust over Mr Appleby already. Inspector Leader is quite a Pacific type. And on this gentleman here’ – and Anne bowed gravely to the Voice – ‘one feels it is only necessary to pull a piece of string to get the most magnificent hoot.’
The constable sniggered; the Voice breathed hard – thus unwittingly giving point to Anne’s comparison; the rest of us attempted to maintain what is called a frozen silence. Presently Leader spoke. ‘Miss Grainger’s suggestion,’ he said, ‘will be considered in its place. If it has a place, that is to say.’ He paused as if calling our attention to this repartee. ‘And now, Sir Basil, there is a most important point. Mr Foxcroft, as you know, is unable to answer questions, and one can’t tell what turn his condition may take. So we want some sort of independent testimony to this resolution of his to buy Belrive. You will realize–’
‘Quite so.’ Basil was impatient and I could tell from this that he was angrier than before – Anne’s conduct being no doubt the cause. ‘There is, I believe, something like evidence. Wilfred remarked that it was a big thing and he would have down his solicitor. And he scribbled out a telegram for Richards to send off there and then. It specifically mentioned the conveyancing of the estate.’
‘Thank you. That is most satisfactory.’
Appleby stirred in his chair as if he did not think it satisfactory at all. It seemed to be his policy that the locomotives should remain as long as possible idling in their yard. ‘Sir Basil,’ he said, ‘has something further to tell us – or so I imagine.’
‘I have.’ Basil squared himself in his chair. ‘And I begin with what has been called the core of the thing. In Geoffrey’s phrase: why was Wilfred so imperfectly shot? We have had one explanation: Wilfred was only badly wounded because a difficult piece of trick-shooting was involved. But we have seen that for this there is no basis whatever.’
Leader raised his eyes from his notebook. ‘Hardly that, Sir Basil. We have seen that a particular motive for your shooting Mr Foxcroft will not hold. But the trick-shooting remains on the carpet just the same. And I must say it seems not a bad explanation of a very puzzling feature of the case. Logic, sir – we must stick to logic.’
It could not be denied that Basil’s logic had gone momentarily off the rails; he acknowledged this himself with a nod which must have caused him a good deal of physical discomfort. ‘Very well. I merely offer you, then, a simpler explanation of why Wilfred was not killed. Killing Wilfred was not the intention of the person who fired the shot.’
‘You mean that the shot was meant for yourself?’ Leader’s pencil suspended itself in air. Very faintly, Appleby sighed.
‘I mean’ – Basil’s voice was perfectly patient again – ‘that the person who fired the shot at Wilfred didn’t mean to kill Wilfred. Or not outright.’ Basil paused and appeared to take a long breath. ‘Geoffrey, is that not so?’
On me at least the words had the effect of physical impact. That Geoffrey should hurl a reckless accusation at his uncle was not out of keeping with much in his character. But that Basil should promptly retort the charge upon his nephew appeared for a moment unbelievably horrible. And for the second time in this fantastic conference I was prompted to attempt intervention. ‘Basil,’ I cried, ‘stop, in heaven’s name! It isn’t so. Haven’t we had mad talk enough?’
I found that in my excitement I had jumped to my feet. Now I sat down trembling. I was aware of Appleby’s eye upon me – an oddly approving eye considering the incoherence of what I had said. And once more I was powerfully aware that of everything that was going on in the library this quiet young man was indefinably in control. The others, too, I think, were becoming aware of this; it was to Appleby and not to Leader that Basil was clearly addressing himself.
‘We have had mad talk only as a consequence of mad action – action so mad that I should be failing in my duty if I did not expose it. Geoffrey is guilty of the attack on Wilfred. And his motive was mere avarice.’
Geoffrey, who had not spoken since his own theory of the crime had been exploded, said nothing now. But he laughed. In the circumstances it was a curiously inoffensive laugh, brief and unforced.
But Basil paid no attention. ‘Geoffrey and Anne have been mad to get something out of Wilfred; they seem to consider it a right. And Wilfred has been putting Anne off – injudiciously, I think it must be said. And I believe there has been another cause of friction – probably of passion – which I shall not mention in this rather large gathering.’
Basil put a weary hand to his bandaged head. The possible emotional tangle between Wilfred, his ward, and Geoffrey was certainly not a thing to air. But it was the only basis that I could see for building up any sort of case. It occurred to me that Wale would have done well to insist on getting Basil away. This turning upon Geoffrey was wholly unlike him, and the clearest evidence that his judgement was clouded by the attack he had suffered. But plainly he had to go forward now with what he had to say.
‘Geoffrey’s action has turned upon an old calculation as to Wilfred’s behaviour in certain circumstances. Wilfred had settled nothing upon Anne. He had bequeathed her nothing. But he had every intention of doing so, and his delay proceeded, it would appear, simply from a foolish desire to preserve a sense of power. But if put in mortal danger – dying or believing he was about to die – Wilfred would do what he conceived to be the right thing.’ Basil smiled grimly. ‘And what Geoffrey and Anne believed to be the right thing. And that is why Geoffrey didn’t shoot to kill outright.’
Basil sank back in his chair amid a dead silence, and once more Wale got up and moved across the room towards him. And then Basil spoke again. ‘Arthur can witness to the moment at which the plan was put in Geoffrey’s head – unwittingly, I hope and believe – by Anne. It was when–’
Basil’s voice tailed off, exhausted. Everybody looked in my direction. I hesitated, though there had come to me a sudden realization of what was meant. Then I decided that Basil’s case, such as it was, had better out. ‘Yesterday morning during the revolver-practice,’ I said, ‘Geoffrey and Anne were talking – resentfully, I fear – about Wilfred’s attitude. Basil must have come up in time to hear the end of it.’ I hesitated in an effort to remember accurately. ‘What Anne finally said was this: “Wilfred is going to gather his dependents round the death-bed. And then how infinitely charitable he will be”.’
Leader’s pencil snapped at the point. Anne’s wretched witticism could not have been brought out more effectively, I suppose, than thus at the tail of Basil’s accusation. And the whole company turned to look at her now.
She was sitting beside Geoffrey and she had put her hand on his. ‘Geoffrey put out his story,’ she said steadily, ‘because he is impulsive and a bit of a blackguard. But Basil can have put out his only because that crack has sent him a bit off his head. He knows much better. Arthur, isn’t that so?’
‘Basil’s theory,’ I said gently, ‘is certainly all wrong.’
‘Geoffrey is a painter.’ Anne’s voice was at its hardest, but I could see that her lips were trembling. ‘All this domestic mess he leaves to me. I assure you’ – she turned to Appleby with something of her habitual serious mockery – ‘he would never shoot anyone unless I told him to. And Wilfred, as Basil ought to know, is a person whom…whom I have always rather liked. Even’ – her face became suddenly a child’s – ‘even if he is a mean and tantalizing old pig.’
&
nbsp; ‘May I ask–’ began Leader, and stopped. Anne had burst into tears.
22
This was the point at which Lucy Chigwidden confessed. She stood up and said in a loud voice: ‘I confess.’
Appleby looked at the clock and I wondered if the extraordinary entertainment we were putting up was beginning to bore him. It was he, however, who took charge of Lucy – and indeed from now onwards he was to bear a more active part in the proceedings. ‘Madam,’ he said gravely, ‘do I understand that you confess to the attempted murder of your nephew, Wilfred Foxcroft?’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy firmly – and added a moment later: ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No – not of my nephew. Of my brother. I tried to murder Basil. Twice.’ Lucy looked round the room, as if to command all our attention. ‘Twice,’ she repeated emphatically.
Mervyn Wale put on his glasses and studied Lucy across the room, much as if he were meditating calling in Beevor once more. Ralph Cambrell, who was sitting disregarded in a corner, began to fiddle with his hat as if he would much like to clap it on his head and escape. Horace Cudbird was fidgeting too; I was increasingly sure that he felt himself to have something really decisive stored up. At the Voice I did not venture to look, but I have no doubt whatever that he was repressing his emotions only with considerable effort.
And now Lucy rose and walked slowly across the room to Anne and Geoffrey. She laid a protective hand on the shoulder of each. ‘In this monstrous charge against these poor lambs,’ she said, ‘one vital point has been overlooked: the attack on Basil just before all this discussion began. If they succeeded in what they planned against Wilfred last night, why should they turn and attack Basil this morning?’ Lucy looked at us vaguely, as if trying to recapture the thread of her remarks. ‘But, as I say, I confess.’ She began to hunt about her chair for her handbag, as if the matter were now settled and we might disperse. Suddenly a thought seemed to strike her. ‘The motive,’ she said; ‘I quite forgot the motive. I hate Basil. Intensely. I have hated him from the nursery. The motive is that.’ She rummaged anew.
There Came Both Mist and Snow Page 16