why Philip's affection for his offspring was
put so definitely in the past. Nannie saw
my expression and flushing slightly, she
ccnrl ?
"When I said the master, it was old Mr.
Leonides I meant."
Before I could respond to that, the door
opened with a rush and Sophia came in.
"Oh Charles," she said, and then quickly:
"Oh Nannie, I'm so glad he's come."
"I know you are, love."
Nannie gathered up a lot of pots and
pans and went off into a scullery with them.
She shut the door behind her.
I got up from the table and went over to
Sophia. I put my arms round her and held
her to me.
"Dearest," I said. "You're trembling.
What is it?"
Sophia said:
"I'm frightened, Charles. I'm frightened."
"I love you," I said. "If I could take you
away --"
She drew apart and shook her head.
"No, that's impossible. We've got to see
this through. But you know, Charles, I
don't like it. I don't like the feeling that
someone -- someone in this house --
someone I see and speak to every day is a
cold blooded calculating poisoner . . ."
And I didn't know how to answer that.
To someone like Sophia one can give no
easy meaningless reassurances.
She said: "If only one knew ?"
"That must be the worst of it," I agreed.
"You know what really frightens me?"
she whispered. "It's that we may never
know. ..."
I could visualise easily what a nightmare
that would be. ... And it seemed to me
highly probable that it never might be
known who had killed old Leonides.
But it also reminded me of a question I
had meant to put to Sophia on a point that
had interested me.
"Tell me, Sophia," I said. "How many
people in this house knew about the eserine
eyedrops ? I mean (a) that your grandfather
had them, and (b) that they were poisonous
and what would be a fatal dose?"
"I see what you're getting at, Charles.
But it won't work. You see, we all knew."
"Well, yes, vaguely, I suppose, but
specifically ?"
"We knew specifically. We were all up
with grandfather one day for coffee after
lunch. He liked all the family round him,
you know. And his eyes had been giving
him a lot of trouble. And Brenda got the
eserine to put a drop in each eye and
ToseDhine who always asks questions about
everything, said 'Why does it say: "Eyedrops
?- not to be taken" on the bottle? What
would happen if you drank all the bottle?5
And grandfather smiled and said: 'IfBrenda
were to make a mistake and inject eyedrops
into me one day instead of insulin ? I
suspect I should give a big gasp 5 and go
rather blue in the face and then die, because,
you see, my heart isn't very strong.' And
Josephine said: 'Oo,' and grandfather went
on 'So we must be careful that Brenda does
not give me an injection of eserine instead
of insulin, mustn't we?5 " Sophia paused
and then said: "We were all there listening.
You see? We all heard!"
I did see. I had had some faint idea in
my mind that just a little specialized
knowledge would have been needed. But
now it was borne in upon me that old
Leonides had actually supplied the blue
print for his own murder. The murderer
had not had to think out a scheme, or to
plan or devise anything. A simple easy
method of causing death had been supplied
by the victim himself.
I drew a deep breath. Sophia, catching
my thought, said: "Yes, it's rather horrible,
isn't it?"
"You know, Sophia," I said slowly.
"There's just one thing does strike me."
"Yes?" "That
you're right, and that it couldn't
have been Brenda. She couldn't do it exactly
that way -- when you'd all listened -- when
you'd all remember."
"I don't know about that. She is rather
dumb in some ways, you know."
"Not as dumb as all that," I said. "No,
it couldn't have been Brenda."
Sophia moved away from me.
"You don't want it to be Brenda, do
you?" she asked.
And what could I say? I couldn't -- no, I couldn't -- say flatly: "Yes, I hope it is
Brenda."
Why couldn't I? Just the feeling that
Brenda was all alone on one side, and the
concentrated animosity of the powerful
Leonides family was arrayed against her on
the other side? Chivalry? A feeling for the
weaker? For the defenceless? I remembered
her sitting on the sofa in her expensive rich
mourning, the hopelessness in her voice --
the fear in her eyes.
Nannie came back rather opportunely
from the scullery. I don't know whether
she sensed a certain strain between myself
and Sophia.
She said disapprovingly:
"Talking murders and such like. Forget
about it, that's what I say. Leave it to the
police. It's their nasty business, not yours."
"Oh Nannie ? don't you realize that
someone in this house is a murderer."
"Nonsense, Miss Sophia, I've no patience
with you. Isn't the front door open all the
time ? all the doors open, nothing locked
? asking for thieves and burglars."
"But it couldn't have been a burglar,
nothing was stolen. Besides why should a
burglar come in and poison somebody?"
"I didn't say it was a burglar. Miss
Sophia. I only said all the doors were open.
Anyone could have got in. If you ask me it
was the Communists."
Nannie nodded her head in a satisfied
way.
"Why on earth should Communists want
to murder poor grandfather?"
"Well, everyone says that they're at the
bottom of everything that goes on. But if it
wasn't the Communists, mark my word, it
was the Catholics. The Scarlet Woman of
Babylon, that's what they are."
With the air of one saying the last word,
Nannie disappeared again into the scullery.
Sophia and I laughed.
"A good old Black Protestant," I said.
"Yes, isn't she? Come on, Charles, come
into the drawing room. There's a kind of
family conclave going on. It was scheduled
for this evening -- but it's started prematurely."
"I'd better not butt in, Sophia."
"If you're ever going to marry into the
family, you'd better see just what it's like
when it has the gloves off."
"What's it all about?"
"Roger's affairs. You seem to have been
mixed up in them already. But you're crazy
to think that Roger would ever have killed
grandfather. Why, Roger adored him."
"I didn't really
think Roger had. I thought
Clemency might have."
"Only because I put it into your head.
But you're wrong there too. I don't think
Clemency will mind a bit if Roger loses all
his money. I think she'll actually be rather
pleased. She's got a queer kind of passion
for not having things. Come on."
When Sophia and I entered the drawing
room, the voices that were speaking stopped
abruptly. Everybody looked at us.
They were all there. Philip sitting in a
big crimson brocaded armchair between the
--;_^^,,^ ^y hpantifnl face set in a cold
stern mask. He looked like a judge about
to pronounce sentence. Roger was astride a
big pouf by the fireplace. He had ruffled
up his hair between his fingers until it stood
up all over his head. His left trouser leg
was rucked up and his tie was askew. He
looked flushed and argumentative. Clemency
sat beyond him, her slight form seemed
too slender for the big stuffed chair. She
was looking away from the others and
seemed to be studying the wall panels with
a dispassionate gaze. Edith sat in a grandfather
chair, bolt upright. She was knitting
with incredible energy, her lips pressed
tightly together. The most beautiful thing
in the room to look at was Magda and
Eustace. They looked like a portrait by
Gainsborough. They sat together on the
sofa -- the dark handsome boy with a
sullen expression on his face, and beside
him, one arm thrust out along the back of
the sofa, sat Magda, the Duchess of Three
Gables in a picture gown of taffeta with one
small foot in a brocaded slipper thrust out
in front of her.
Philip frowned. V
"Sophia," he said, "I'm sorry, but we
are discussing family matters which are of
a private nature."
Miss de Haviland's needles clicked. I
prepared to apologise and retreat. Sophia
forestalled me. Her voice was clear and
determined.
"Charles and I," she said, "hope to get
married. I want Charles to be here.55
"And why on earth not?55 cried Roger, springing up from his pouf with explosive
energy. "I keep telling you, Philip, there5 s
nothing private about this! The whole world
is going to know tomorrow or the day after.
Anyway, my dear boy,55 he came and put a
friendly hand on my shoulder, "you know
all about it. You were there this morning.5'
"Do tell me,55 cried Magda, leaning
forward. "What is it like at Scotland Yard.
One always wonders. A table. A desk?
Chairs? What kind of curtains? No flowers, I suppose? A dictaphone?55
"Put a sock in it, mother,55 said Sophia.
"And anyway, you told Vavasour Jones to
cut that Scotland Yard scene. You said it
was an anticlimax.55
"It makes it too like a detective play," said Magda. "Edith Thompson is definitely
a psychological drama -- or psychological
thriller -- which do you think sounds best?55
??
"You were there this morning?55 Philip
asked me sharply. "Why? Oh, of course -- your father ?"
He frowned. I realised more clearly than
ever that my presence was unwelcome, but
Sophia's hand was clenched on my arm.
Clemency moved a chair forward.
"Do sit down," she said.
I gave her a grateful glance and accepted.
"You may say what you like," said Miss
de Haviland apparently going on from
where they had all left off, "but I do think
we ought to respect Aristide's wishes. When
this will business is straightened out, as far
as I am concerned, my legacy is entirely at
your disposal, Roger."
Roger tugged his hair in a frenzy.
"No, Aunt Edith. No!" he cried.
"I wish I could say the same," said
Philip, "but one has to take every factor
into consideration ?"
"Dear old Phil, don't you understand?
I'm not going to take a penny from anyone."
"Of course he can't!" snapped Clemency.
"Anyway, Edith," said Magda. "If the
will is straightened out, he'll have his own
legacy."
"But it can't possibly be straightened out
in time, can it?" asked Eustace.
"You don't know anything about it,
Eustace," said Philip.
"The boy's absolutely right," cried Roger. "He's put his finger on the spot. Nothing
can avert the crash. Nothing."
He spoke with a kind of relish.
"There is really nothing to discuss," said
Clemency.
"Anyway," said Roger, "what does it
matter?" "I
should have thought it mattered a
good deal," said Philip, pressing his lips
together.
"No," said Roger. "No! Does anything
matter compared with the fact that father
is dead? Father is dead! And we sit here
discussing mere money matters!"
A faint colour rose in Philip's pale cheeks.
"We are only trying to help," he said
stiffly.
"I know, Phil, old boy, I know. But
there's nothing anyone can do. So let's call
it a day."
"I suppose," said Philip, "that I could
raise a certain amount of money. Securities
have gone down a good deal and some of
my capital is tied up in such a way that I
can't touch it: Magda's settlement and so
on -- but --"
Magda said quickly:
af^f /^,,,,o^ ,7rm pan't raise the money?
darling. It would be absurd to try ? and
not very fair on the children."
"I tell you I'm not asking anyone for
anything!" shouted Roger. "I'm hoarse with
telling you so. I'm quite content that things
should take their course."
"It's a question of prestige," said Philip.
"Father's. Ours."
"It wasn't a family business. It was solely
my concern."
"Yes," said Philip, looking at him. "It
was entirely your concern."
Edith de Haviland got up and said: "I
think we've discussed this enough."
There was in her voice that authentic
note of authority that never fails to produce
its effect.
Philip and Magda got up. Eustace lounged
out of the room and I noticed the stiffness
of his gait. He was not exactly lame but his
walk was a halting one.
Roger linked his arm in Philip's and said:
"You've been a brick, Phil, even to think
of such a thing!" The brothers went out
together.
Magda murmured, "Such a fuss!" as she
followed them, and Sophia said that she
^ust see about my room.
Edith de Haviland stood rolling up her
knitting. She looked towards me and I
thought she was going to speak to me.
There was something almost like appeal in
her glance. However, she changed her
mind, si
ghed and went out after the others.
Clemency had moved over to the window
and stood looking out into the garden. I
went over and stood beside her. She turned
her head slightly towards me.
"Thank goodness that's over," she said
? and added with distaste: "What a
preposterous room this isl"
"Don't you like it?"
"I can't breathe in it. There's always a
smell of half dead flowers and dust."
I thought she was unjust to the room.
But I knew what she meant. It was very
definitely an interior.
It was a woman's room, exotic, soft, shut
away from the rude blasts of outside
weather. It was not a room that a man
would be happy in for long. It was not a
room where you could relax and read the
newspaper and smoke a pipe and put up
your feet. Nevertheless I preferred it to
Clemency's own abstract expression of
herself upstairs. On the whole I prefer a
boudoir to an operating theatre.
"It's just a stage set. A background for
Magda to play her scenes against." She
looked at me. "You realise, don't you, what
we've just been doing? Act II ? the family
conclave. Magda arranged it. It didn't mean
a thing. There was nothing to talk about,
nothing to discuss. It's all settled ?
finished."
There was no sadness in her voice. Rather
there was satisfaction. She caught my glance.
"Oh, don't you understand?" she said
impatiently. "We're free ? at last! Don't
you understand that Roger's been miserable
? absolutely miserable ? for years? He
never had any aptitude for business. He
likes things like horses and cows and
pottering round in the country. But he
adored his father ? they all did. That's
what's wrong with this house ? too much
family. I don't mean that the old man was
a tyrant, or preyed upon them, or bullied
them. He didn't. He gave them money and
freedom. He was devoted to them. And
they kept on being devoted to him."
"Is there anything wrong in that?"
"I think there is. I think, when your
children have grown up, that you should
cut away from them, efface yourself, slink
away, force them to forget you."
"Force them? That's rather drastic, isn't
it? Isn't coercion as bad one way as
another?"
"If he hadn't made himself such a
personality --"
"You can't make yourself a personality,"
I said. "He was a personality."
"He was too much of a personality for
Roger. Roger worshipped him. He wanted
to do everything his father wanted him to
do, he wanted to be the kind of son his
father wanted. And he couldn't. His father
made over Associated Catering to him -- it
was the old man's particular joy and pride, and Roger tried hard to carry on in his
father's footsteps. But he hadn't got that
kind of ability. In business matters Roger
is -- yes, I'll say it plainly -- a fool. And
it nearly broke his heart. He's been miserable
for years, struggling, seeing the whole
thing go down the hill, having sudden
wonderful 'ideas' and 'schemes' which
always went wrong and made it worse than
ever. It's a terrible thing to feel you're a
failure year after year. You don't know how
unhappy he's been. I do." , I
Again she turned and faced me. )
"You thought, you actually suggested to ihp nnlice. that Roger would have killed his jh
father ? for money! You don't know how
.? how absolutely ridiculous that is!"
"I do know it now," I said humbly.
"When Roger knew he couldn't stave it
off any more ? that the crash was bound
to come, he was actually relieved. Yes, he
was. He worried about his father's knowing
? but not about anything else. He was
looking forward to the new life we were
going to live."
Her face quivered a little and her voice
softened.
"Where were you going?" I asked.
"To Barbados. A distant cousin of mine
died a short time ago and left me a tiny
estate out there ? oh, nothing much. But
it was somewhere to go. We'd have been
desperately poor, but we'd have scratched
a living ? it costs very little just to live.
We'd have been together ? unworried,
away from them all."
She sighed.
"Roger is a ridiculous person. He would
worry about me ? about my being poor. I
suppose he's got the Leonides attitude to
money too firmly in his mind. When my
first husband was alive, we were terribly
poor ? and Roger thinks it was so brave
and wonderful of me! He doesn't realise
that I was happy ? really happy! I've never
been so happy since. And yet ? I never
loved Richard as I love Roger."
Her eyes half-closed. I was aware of the
intensity of her feeling.
She opened her eyes, looked at me and
said:
"So you see, I would never have killed
anyone for money. I don't like money."
I was quite sure that she meant exactly
what she said. Clemency Leonides was one
of those rare people to whom money does
not appeal. They dislike luxury, prefer
austerity, and are suspicious of possessions.
Still, there are many to whom money has
no personal appeal, but who can be tempted
by the power it confers.
I said, "You mightn't want money for
yourself ? but wisely directed, money may
do a lot of interesting things. It can endow