Leonides is the most likely person to profit
by it?"
"Yes. If there's been any hocus pocus, it
seems probable that she's at the bottom of
it. And there obviously has been hocus
pocus, but I'm dashed if I see how it was
done."
I didn't see, either. I suppose we were
really incredibly stupid. But we were looking
at it, of course, from the wrong angle.
Twelve
There was a short silence after Taverner
had gone out.
Then I said:
"Dad, what are murderers like?"
The Old Man looked up at me thoughtfully.
We understand each other so well
that he knew exactly what was in my mind
when I put that question. And he answered
it very seriously.
"Yes," he said. 'That's important now
-- very important, for you. . . . Murder's
come close to you. You can't go on looking
at it from the outside."
I had always been interested, in an
amateurish kind of way, in some of the
more spectacular "cases" with which the
CID had dealt, but, as my father said, I
had been interested from the outside --
looking in, as it were, through the shop
window. But now, as Sophia had seen much [more quickly than I did, murder had
become a dominant factor in my life.
The Old Man went on:
"I don't know if I'm the right person to
ask. I could put you on to a couple of the
tame psychiatrists who do jobs for us.
They've got it all cut and dried. Or Taverner
could give you all the inside dope. But you
want, I take it, to hear what I, personally,
as the result of my experience of criminals,
think about it?"
"That's what I want," I said gratefully.
My father traced a little circle with his
finger on the desk top.
"What are murderers like? Some of
them," a faint rather melancholy smile
showed on his face, "have been thoroughly
nice chaps."
I think I looked a little startled.
"Oh yes, they have," he said. "Nice
ordinary fellows like you and me ? or like
that chap who went out just now ? Roger
Leonides. Murder, you see, is an amateur
crime. I'm speaking of course of the kind
of murder you have in mind ? not gangster
stuff. One feels, very often, as though these
nice ordinary chaps, had been overtaken,
as it were, by murder, almost accidentally.
They've been in a tight place, or they've
wanted somethine very badly, money or a j
woman -- and they've killed to get it. The
brake that operates with most of us doesn't
operate with them. A child, you know, translates desire into action without compunction.
A child is angry with its kitten,
says 'I'll kill you,' and hits it on the head
with a hammer -- and then breaks its heart
because the kitten doesn't come alive again!
Lots of kids try to take a baby out of a
pram and 'drown it,' because it usurps
attention -- or interferes with their pleasures.
They get -- very early -- to a stage
when they know that that is 'wrong' -- that
is, that it will be punished. Later, they get
to feel that it is wrong. But some people, I
suspect, remain morally immature. They
continue to be aware that murder is wrong, but they do not feel it. I don't think, in
my experience, that any murderer has really
felt remorse. . . . And that, perhaps, is
the mark of Cain. Murderers are set apart, they are 'different' -- murder is wrong --
but not for them -- for them it is necessary -- the victim has 'asked for it,' it was 'the
only way.' "
"Do you think," I asked, "that if someone
hated old Leonides, had hated him, say, for a very long time, that that would be a
reason?"
"Pure hate? Very unlikely, I should say."
My father looked at me curiously. "When
you say hate, I presume you mean dislike
carried to excess. A jealous hate is different
-- that rises out of affection and frustration.
Constance Kent, everybody said, was very
fond of the baby brother she killed. But
she wanted, one supposes, the attention and
the love that was bestowed on him. I think
people more often kill those they love, than
those they hate. Possibly because only the
people you love can really make life
unendurable to you.
"But all this doesn't help you much, does
it?" he went on. "What you want, if I read
you correctly, is some token, some universal
sign that will help you to pick out a
murderer from a household of apparently
normal and pleasant people?"
"Yes, that's it."
"Is there a common denominator? I
wonder. You know," he paused in thought, "if there is, I should be inclined to say it
is vanity."
"Vanity?"
"Yes, I've never met a murderer who
wasn't vain. . . .It's their vanity that leads
to their undoing, nine times out of ten. They mav be frightened of being caught,
but they can't help strutting and boasting
and usually they're sure they've been far
too clever to be caught." He added: "And
here's another thing, a murderer wants to
talk."
"To talk?"
"Yes, you see, having committed a
murder puts you in a position of great
loneliness. You'd like to tell somebody all
about it ? and you never can. And that
makes you want to all the more. And so ?
if you can't talk about how you did it, you
can at least talk about the murder itself ?
discuss it, advance theories ? go over it.
"If I were you, Charles, I should look
out for that. Go down there again, mix with
them all, get them to talk. Of course it
won't be plain sailing. Guilty or innocent,
they'll be glad of the chance to talk to a
stranger, because they can say things to you
that they couldn't say to each other. But
it's possible, I think, that you might spot a
difference. A person who has something to
hide can't really afford to talk at all. The
blokes knew that in Intelligence during the
war. If you were captured, your name, rank
and unit but nothing more. People who
attempt to give false information nearly
always slip up. Get that household talking,
Charles, and watch out for a slip or for
some flash of self revelation."
I told him then about what Sophia had
said about the ruthlessness in the family --
the different kinds of ruthlessness. He was
interested.
"Yes," he said. "Your young woman has
got something there. Most families have got
a defect, a chink in the armour. Most
people can deal with one weakness -- but
they mightn't be able to deal with two
weaknesses of a different kind. Interesting
thing, heredit
y. Take the de Haviland ruthlessness, and what we might call the
Leonides's unscrupulousness -- the de
Havilands are all right because they're not
unscrupulous, and the Leonides are all right
because, though unscrupulous, they are
kindly -- but get a descendant who inherited
both of those traits -- see what I mean?"
I had not thought of it quite in those
terms. My father said:
"But I shouldn't worry your head about
heredity. It's much too tricky and complicated
a subject. No, my boy, go down there
and let them talk to you. Your Sophia is
quite right about one thing. Nothing but
the truth is going to be any good to her or
to you. You've got to know."
He added as I went out of the room:
"And be careful of the child."
"Josephine? You mean don't let on to
her what I'm up to."
"No 31 didn't mean that. I meant -- look
after her. We don't want anything to happen
to her."
I stared at him.
"Come, come, Charles. There's a cold
blooded killer somewhere in that household.
The child Josephine appears to know most
of what goes on."
"She certainly knew all about Roger --
even if she did leap to the conclusion that
he was a swindler. Her account of what she
overheard seems to have been quite accurate."
"Yes, yes. Child's evidence is always the
best evidence there is. I'd rely on it every
time. No good in court, of course. Children
can't stand being asked direct questions.
They mumble or else look idiotic and say they don't know. They're at their best when
they're showing off. That's what the child was doing to you. Showing off. You'll get more out of her in the same way. Don't go asking her questions. Pretend you think ^e doesn't know anything. That'll fetch
[her."
He added:
"But take care of her. She may know a
little too much for somebody's safety."
Thirteen
I went down to the Crooked House (as I
called it in my own mind) with a slightly
guilty feeling. Though I had repeated to
Taverner Josephine's confidences about
Roger 5 I had said nothing about her
statement that Brenda and Laurence Brown
wrote love letters to each other.
I excused myself by pretending that it
was mere romancing, and that there was no
reason to believe that it was true. But
actually I had felt a strange reluctance to
pile up additional evidence against Brenda
Leonides. I had been affected by the pathos
of her position in the house ? surrounded
by a hostile family united solidly against
her. If such letters existed doubtless
Taverner and his myrmidons would find
them. I disliked to be the means of bringing
fresh suspicion on a woman in a difficult
Position. Moreover, she had assured me
^lemnly that there was nothing of that
kind between her and Laurence and I felt
more inclined to believe her than to believe
that malicious gnome Josephine. Had not
Brenda said herself that Josephine was "Not
all there."
I stifled an uneasy certainty that Josephine
was very much all there. I remembered the
intelligence of her beady black eyes.
I had rung up Sophia and asked if I
might come down again. i "Please do, Charles."
"How are things going?"
"I don't know. All right. They keep on
searching the house. What are they looking
for?"
"I've no idea."
"We're all getting very nervy. Come as
soon as you can. I shall go crazy if I can't
talk to someone."
I said I would come down straightaway.
There was no one in sight as I drove up
to the front door. I paid the taxi and it
drove away. I felt uncertain whether to ring
the bell or to walk in. The front door was
open.
As I stood there, hesitating, I heard a
slight sound behind me. I turned my head
sharply. Josephine, her face partially oh- smred by a very large apple, was standing
in the opening of the yew hedge looking at
me.
As I turned my head 5 she turned away.
"Hullo, Josephine."
She did not answer, but disappeared
behind the hedge. I crossed the drive and
followed her. She was seated on the
uncomfortable rustic bench by the goldfish
pond swinging her legs to and fro and
biting into her apple. Above its rosy
circumference her eyes regarded me sombrely
and with what I could not but feel
was hostility.
"I've come down again, Josephine," I
said.
It was a feeble opening, but I found
Josephine's silence and her unblinking gaze, rather unnerving.
With excellent strategic sense, she still
did not reply.
"Is that a good apple?" I asked.
This time Josephine did condescend to
reply. Her reply consisted of one word.
"Woolly."
"A pity," I said. "I don't like woolly
apples."
Josephine replied scornfully:
"Nobody does."
"Why wouldn't you speak to me when
I said Hullo?"
"I didn't want to."
"Why not?"
Josephine removed the apple from her
face to assist in the clearness of her
denunciation. .
"You went and sneaked to the police,"
she said.
"Oh," I was rather taken aback. "You
mean -- about --"
"About Uncle Roger."
"But it's all right, Josephine," I assured
her. "Quite all right. They know he didn't
do anything wrong -- I mean, he hadn't
embezzled any money or anything of that
kind."
Josephine threw me an exasperated glance.
"How stupid you are."
"I'm sorry."
"I wasn't worrying about Uncle Roger.
It's simply that that's not the way to do
detective work. Don't you know that you
never tell the police until the very end?" ft "Oh I see," I said. "I'm sorry, Josephine.
I'm really very sorry."
"So you should be." She added reproachfully,
"I trusted you."
I said I was sorry for the third time.
loseohine appeared a little mollified. She
took another couple of bites of apple.
"But the police would have been bound
to find out about all this," I said. "You --
I -- we couldn't have kept it a secret."
"You mean because he's going bankrupt?"
As usual Josephine was well informed.
"I suppose it will come to that."
"They're going to talk about it tonight,"
said Josephine. "Father and Mother and
Uncle Roger and Aunt Edith. Aunt Edith
would give him her money -- only she
hasn't got it yet -- but I don't think father
will. He says if Roger has got in a jam he's
only got himself to blame and wh
at's the
good of throwing good money after bad, and mother won't hear of giving him any
because she wants father to put up the
money for Edith Thompson. Do you know
Edith Thompson? She was married, but
she didn't like her husband. She was in
love with a young man called Bywaters who
came off a ship and he went down a different
street after the theatre and stabbed him in
the back."
I marvelled once more at the range and
completeness of Josephine's knowledge; and also at the dramatic sense which, only [slightly obscured by hazy pronouns, had
presented all the salient facts in a nutshell.
"It sounds all right," said Josephine,
"but I don't suppose the play will be like
that at all. It will be like Jezebel again."
She sighed. "I wish I knew why the dogs
wouldn't eat the palms of her hands."
"Josephine," I said. "You told me that
you were almost sure who the murderer
was?" . .- |
"Well?" U "
"Who is it?"
She gave me a look of scorn.
"I see," I said. "Not till the last chapter?
Not even if I promise not to tell Inspector
Taverner?"
"I want just a few more clues," said
Josephine.
"Anyway," she added, throwing the core
of the apple into the goldfish pool, "I
wouldn't tell you. If you're anyone, you're
Watson."
I stomached this insult.
"O.K." I said. "I'm Watson. But even
Watson was given the data."
"The what?"
"The facts. And then he made the wrong
deductions from them. Wouldn't it be a lot
of fun for you to see me making the wrong
deductions?"
A
? B;
For a moment Josephine was tempted.
Then she shook her head.
"No," she said, and added: "Anyway? I'm not very keen on Sherlock Holmes. It^s
awfully old fashioned. They drive about in
dog carts."
"What about those letters?" I asked.
"What letters?"
The letters you said Laurence Brown and
Brenda wrote to each other."
"I made that up," said Josephine.
"I don't believe you."
"Yes, I did. I often make things up. It
amuses me."
I stared at her. She stared back.
"Look here, Josephine. I know a man sit
the British Museum who knows a lot aboixt
the Bible. If I find out from him why th^ dogs didn't eat the palms of Jezebel's hands? will you tell me about those letters?"
This time Josephine really hesitated.
Somewhere, not very far away, a twi^ snapped with a sharp cracking noise. Jose^phine
said flatly:
"No, I won't."
I accepted defeat. Rather late in the day^ I remembered my father's advice.
"Oh well," I said, "it's only a game. Qt
^urse you don't really know anything."
Josephine's eyes snapped, but she resisted
the bait. ^
I got up. "I must go in now," I said, "and find Sophia. Come along."
"I shall stop here," said Josephine.
"No, you won't," I said. "You're coming
in with me."
Unceremoniously I yanked her to her
feet. She seemed surprised and inclined to
protest, but yielded with a fairly good grace
-- partly, no doubt, because she wished to
observe the reactions of the household to
my presence.
Why I was so anxious for her to accompany
me I could not at the moment have
said. It only came to me as we were passing
through the front door.
It was because of the sudden snapping of
a twig.
Fourteen
There was a murmur of voices from the big
drawing room. I hesitated but did not go
in. I wandered on down the passage and
led by some impulse, I pushed open a baize
door. The passage beyond was dark but
suddenly a door opened showing a big
lighted kitchen. In the doorway stood an
old woman -- a rather bulky old woman.
She had a very clean white apron tied round
her ample waist and the moment I saw her
I knew that everything was all right. It is
the feeling that a good Nannie can always
give you. I am thirty-five, but I felt just
like a reassured little boy of four.
As far as I knew, Nannie had never seen me , but she said at once:
"It's Mr. Charles, isn't it? Come into the
kitchen and let me give you a cup of tea."
It was a big happy feeling kitchen. I sat
down by the centre table and Nannie brought me a cup of tea and two sweet
biscuits on a plate. I felt more than ever
that I was in the nursery again. Everything
was all right ? and the terrors of the dark
room and the unknown were no more with
me.
"Miss Sophia will be glad you've come,"
said Nannie. "She's been getting rather
overexcited." She added disapprovingly:
"They're all overexcited."
I looked over my shoulder.
"Where's Josephine? She came in with
me."
Nannie made a disapproving clacking
noise with her tongue.
"Listening at doors and writing down
things in that silly little book she carries
about with her," she said. "She ought to
have gone to school and had children of her
own age to play with. I've said so to Miss
Edith and she agrees ? but the master
would have it that she was best here in her
home."
"I suppose he's very fond of her," I said.
r "He was, sir. He was fond of them all."
I looked slightly astonished, wondering