Read Crooked House Page 12

research, for example."

  I had suspected that Clemency might be

  a fanatic about her work, but she merely

  said:

  "I doubt if endowments ever do much

  good. They're usually spent in the wrong

  way. The things that are worth while are

  usually accomplished by someone with

  enthusiasm and drive ? and with natural

  vision. Expensive equipment and training

  and experiment never does what you'd

  imagine it might do. The spending of it

  usually gets into the wrong hands."

  "Will you mind giving up your work

  when you go to Barbados?" I asked. "You're

  still going, I presume?"

  "Oh yes, as soon as the police will let us.

  No, I shan't mind giving up my work at

  all. Why should I? I wouldn't like to be

  idle, but I shan't be idle in Barbados."

  She added impatiently:

  "Oh, if only this could all be cleared up

  quickly and we could get away."

  "Clemency," I said, "have you any idea

  at all who did do this? Granting that you

  and Roger had no hand in it, (and really I

  can't see any reason to think you had)

  surely, with your intelligence, you must

  have some idea of who did?"

  She gave me a rather peculiar look, a

  darting sideways glance. When she spoke

  her voice had lost its spontaneity. It was

  awkward, rather embarrassed.

  "One can't make guesses, it's unscientific,"

  she said. "One can only say that

  Brenda and Laurence are the obvious

  suspects."

  "So you think they did it?"

  Clemency shrugged her shoulders.

  She stood for a moment as though

  listening 5 then she went out of the room, passing Edith de Haviland in the doorway.

  Edith came straight over to me. "I want to talk to you," she said.

  My father's words leapt into my mind.

  Was this --

  But Edith de Haviland was going on:

  "I hope you didn't get the wrong impression," she said. "About Philip, I mean. | Philip is rather difficult to understand. He I

  may seem to you reserved and cold, but

  that is not so at all. It's just a manner. He

  can't help it."

  "I really hadn't thought --" I began.

  But she swept on. I

  "Just now -- about Roger. It isn't really

  that he's grudging. He's never been mean

  about money. And he's really a dear -- he's

  always been a dear -- but he needs

  understanding."

  I looked at her with the air, I hope, of

  one who was willing to understand. She

  went on:

  "It's partly, I think, from having been

  the second of the family. There's often

  something about a second child -- they

  o^oft konrli canned He adored his father,

  you see. Of course, all the children adored

  Aristide and he adored them. But Roger

  was his especial pride and joy. Being the

  eldest -- the first. And I think Philip felt

  it. He drew back right into himself. He

  began to like books and the past and things

  that were well divorced from everyday life.

  I think he suffered -- children do suffer

  "

  J.^'J.

  She paused and went on:

  {"What I really mean, I suppose, is that

  he's always been jealous of Roger. I think

  perhaps he doesn't know it himself. But I

  think the fact that Roger has come a cropper

  -- oh, it seems an odious thing to say and

  really I'm sure he doesn't realise it himself

  | -- but I think perhaps Philip isn't as sorry

  about it as he ought to be."

  "You mean really that he's rather pleased

  Roger has made a fool of himself."

  "Yes," said Miss de Haviland. "I mean

  just exactly that."

  She added, frowning a little:

  "It distressed me, you know, that he

  didn't at once offer help to his brother."

  "Why should he?" I said. "After all,

  Roger has made a muck of things. He's a

  grown man. There are no children to

  consider. If he were ill or in real want, of

  course his family would help -- but I've no

  doubt Roger would really much prefer to

  start afresh entirely on his own."

  "Oh! he would. It's only Clemency he

  minds about. And Clemency is an extraordinary

  creature. She really likes being

  uncomfortable and having only one utility

  teacup to drink out of. Modern, I suppose.

  She's no sense of the past 5 no sense of

  beauty."

  I felt her shrewd eyes looking me up and

  down.

  "This is a dreadful ordeal for Sophia,"

  she said. "I am so sorry her youth should

  be dimmed by it. I love them all, you

  know. Roger and Philip, and now Sophia

  and Eustace and Josephine. All the dear

  children. Marcia's children. Yes, I love

  them dearly." She paused and then added

  sharply: "But, mind you, this side idolatry."

  She turned abruptly and went. I had the

  feeling that she had meant something by

  her last remark that I did not quite

  understand.

  Fifteen

  "Your room's ready," said Sophia.

  She stood by my side looking out at the garden. It looked bleak and grey now with

  the half denuded trees swaying in the wind.

  Sophia echoed my thought as she said:

  "How desolate it looks. ..."

  As we watched, a figure, and then presently

  another came through the yew hedge

  from the rock garden. They both looked

  grey and unsubstantial in the fading light.

  Brenda Leonides was the first. She was

  wrapped in a grey chinchilla coat and there

  was something catlike and stealthy in the

  way she moved. She slipped through the

  twilight with a kind of eerie grace.

  I saw her face as she passed the window.

  There was a half smile on it, the curving

  crooked smile I had noticed upstairs. A few

  minutes later Laurence Brown, looking slender

  and shrunken, also slipped through the

  twilight. I can only put it that way. They

  did not seem like two people walking, two

  people who had been out for a stroll. There

  was something furtive and unsubstantial

  about them like two ghosts.

  I wondered if it was under Brenda's or

  Laurence's foot that a twig had snapped.

  By a natural association of ideas, I asked:

  "Where's Josephine?"

  "Probably with Eustace up in the schoolroom." She frowned. "I'm worried about

  Eustace, Charles."

  "Why?"

  "He's so moody and odd. He's been so

  different ever since that wretched paralysis.

  I can't make out what's going on in his

  mind. Sometimes he seems to hate us all."

  "He'll probably grow out of all that. It's

  just a phase."

  "Yes, I suppose so. But I do get worried,

  Charles."

  "Why, dear heart?"

  "Really, I suppose, because mother and

  father never worry. Th
ey're not like a

  mother and father."

  "That may be all for the best. More

  children suffer from interference than from

  noninterference.''

  "That's true. You know, I never thought

  about it until I came back from abroad, but

  they really are a queer couple. Father living

  determinedly in a world of obscure historical

  bypaths and mother having a lovely time

  creating scenes. That tomfoolery this evening

  was all mother. There was no need for

  it. She just wanted to play a family conclave

  scene. She gets bored, you know, down

  here and has to try and work up a drama."

  For the moment I had a fantastic vision

  of Sophia's mother poisoning her elderly

  father-in-law in a light-hearted manner in order to observe a murder drama at first

  hand with herself in the leading role.

  An amusing thought! I dismissed it as

  such -- but it left me a little uneasy.

  "Mother," said Sophia, "has to be looked

  after the whole time. You never know what

  she's up to!"

  "Forget your family, Sophia," I said

  firmly.

  "I shall be only too delighted to, but it's

  a little difficult at the present moment. But

  I was happy out in Cairo when I had

  forgotten them all."

  I remembered how Sophia had never nientioned her home or her people.

  "Is that why you never talked about

  them?" I asked. "Because you wanted to

  forget them?"

  did not seem like two people walking, two

  people who had been out for a stroll. There

  was something furtive and unsubstantial

  about them like two ghosts.

  I wondered if it was under Brenda's or

  Laurence's foot that a twig had snapped.

  By a natural association of ideas, I asked:

  "Where's Josephine?"

  "Probably with Eustace up in the schoolroom." She frowned. "I'm worried about

  Eustace, Charles."

  "Why?"

  "He's so moody and odd. He's been so

  different ever since that wretched paralysis.

  I can't make out what's going on in his

  mind. Sometimes he seems to hate us all."

  "He'll probably grow out of all that. It's

  just a phase."

  "Yes, I suppose so. But I do get worried, Charles."

  "Why, dear heart?"

  "Really, I suppose, because mother and

  father never worry. They're not like a

  mother and father."

  "That may be all for the best. More

  children suffer from interference than from

  noninterference.''

  "That's true. You know, I never thought

  about it until I came back from abroad, but

  they really are a queer couple. Father living

  determinedly in a world of obscure historical

  bypaths and mother having a lovely time

  creating scenes. That tomfoolery this evening

  was all mother. There was no need for

  it. She just wanted to play a family conclave

  scene. She gets bored, you know, down

  here and has to try and work up a drama.55

  For the moment I had a fantastic vision

  of Sophia's mother poisoning her elderly

  father-in-law in a light-hearted manner in

  order to observe a murder drama at first

  hand with herself in the leading role.

  An amusing thought! I dismissed it as

  such -- but it left me a little uneasy.

  "Mother," said Sophia, "has to be looked

  after the whole time. You never know what

  she's up to!"

  "Forget your family, Sophia," I said

  firmly.

  "I shall be only too delighted to, but it's

  a little difficult at the present moment. But

  I was happy out in Cairo when I had

  forgotten them all."

  I remembered how Sophia had never mentioned her home or her people.

  "Is that why you never talked about

  them?" I asked. "Because you wanted to

  | forget them?"

  "I think so. We've always, all of us, lived

  too much in each other's pockets. We're --.

  we're all too fond of each other. We're not

  like some families where they all hate each

  other like poison. That must be pretty bad, but it's almost worse to live all tangled up

  in conflicting affections."

  She added:

  " I think that's what I meant when I said

  we all lived together in a little crooked

  house. I didn't mean that it was crooked in

  the dishonest sense. I think what I meant

  was that we hadn't been able to grow up

  independent, standing by ourselves, upright.

  We're all a bit twisted and twining."

  I saw Edith de Haviland's heel grinding

  a weed into the path as Sophia added:

  "Like bindweed . . ."

  And then suddenly Magda was with us

  -- flinging open the door -- crying out:

  "Darlings, why don't you have the lights

  on? It's almost dark."

  And she pressed the switches and the

  lights sprang up on the walls and on the tables, and she and Sophia and I pulled the

  heavy rose curtains, and there we were in

  the flower-scented interior, and Magda,

  flinging herself on the sofa, cried:

  "What an incredible scene it was, wasn't

  it? How cross Eustace was! He told me he

  thought it was all positively indecent. How

  funny boys are!"

  She sighed.

  "Roger's rather a pet. I love him when

  he rumples his hair and starts knocking

  things over. Wasn't it sweet of Edith to

  offer her legacy to him? She really meant

  it, you know, it wasn't just a gesture. But

  it was terribly stupid -- it might have made

  Philip think he ought to do it, too! Of

  course Edith would do anything for the

  family! There's something very pathetic in

  the love of a spinster for her sister's children.

  Someday I shall play one of those devoted

  spinster aunts. Inquisitive, and obstinate

  and devoted."

  "It must have been hard for her after her

  sister died," I said, refusing to be sidetracked

  into discussion of another of Magda's

  roles. "I mean if she disliked old

  Leonides so much."

  Magda interrupted me.

  "Disliked him? Who told you that?

  Nonsense. She was in love with him."

  "Mother!" said Sophia.

  "Now don't try and contradict me,

  Sophia. Naturally at your age, you think

  I love is all two good looking young people

  in the moonlight."

  "She told me," I said, "that she had

  always disliked him."

  "Probably she did when she first came.

  She'd been angry with her sister for marrying

  him. I daresay there was always some

  antagonism ? but she was in love with him

  all right! Darlings, I do know what I'm

  talking about! Of course, with deceased

  wife's sister and all that, he couldn't have

  married her, and I daresay he never thought

  of it ? and quite probably she didn't either.

  She was quite happy mothering the chil
dren,

  and having fights with him. But she didn't

  like it when he .married Brenda. She

  didn't like it a bit!"

  "No more did you and father," said

  Sophia.

  "No, of course we hated it! Naturally!

  But Edith hated it most. Darling, the way

  I've seen her look at Brenda!"

  "Now, mother," said Sophia.

  Magda threw her an affectionate and half

  guilty glance, the glance of a mischievous

  spoilt child.

  She went on, with no apparent realization

  of any lack of continuity:

  "I've decided Josephine really must go

  to school."

  "Josephine? To school."

  "Yes. To Switzerland. I'm going to see

  about it tomorrow. I really think we might

  get her off at once. It's so bad for her to

  be mixed up in a horrid business like this.

  She's getting quite morbid about it. What

  she needs is other children of her own age.

  School life. I've always thought so."

  "Grandfather didn't want her to go to

  school," said Sophia slowly. "He was very

  much against it."

  "Darling old Sweetie Pie liked us all here

  under his eye. Very old people are often

  selfish in that way. A child ought to be

  amongst other children. And Switzerland is

  so healthy ? all the winter sports, and theair, and such much, much better food than

  we get here!"

  "It will be difficult to arrange for

  Switzerland now with all the currency

  regulations, won't it?" I asked.

  "Nonsense, Charles. There's some kind

  of educational racket ? or you exchange

  with a Swiss child ? there are all sorts of

  ways. Rudolf Alstir's in Lausanne. I shall

  wire him tomorrow to arrange everything.

  We can get her off by the end of the week!"

  Magda punched a cushion, smiled at us,

  | Went to the door, stood a moment looking

  back at us in a quite enchanting fashion.

  "It's only the young who count," she

  said. As she said it, it was a lovely line. "They must always come first. And, darlings

  -- think of the flowers -- the blue gentians, the narcissus. ..."

  "In November?" asked Sophia, but

  Magda had gone.

  Sophia heaved an exasperated sigh.

  "Really," she said, "Mother is too trying! She gets these sudden ideas, and she sends

  thousands of telegrams and everything has

  to be arranged at a moment's notice. Why

  should Josephine be hustled off to Switzerland

  all in a flurry?"

  "There's probably something in the idea

  of school. I think children of her own age

  would be a good thing for Josephine."

  "Grandfather didn't think so," said Sophia

  obstinately.

  I felt slightly irritated.

  "My dear Sophia, do you really think an

  old gentleman of over eighty is the best

  judge of a child's welfare?"

  "He was about the best judge of anybody

  in this house," said Sophia.

  "Better than your Aunt Edith?"

  "No, perhaps not. She did rather favour

  school. I admit Josephine's got into rather

  tt

  difficult ways ? she's got a horrible habit

  of snooping. But I really think it's just

  because she's playing detectives."

  Was it only the concern for Josephine's

  welfare which had occasioned Magda's

  sudden decision? I wondered. Josephine

  was remarkably well informed about all

  sorts of things that had happened prior to

  the murder and which had been certainly

  no business of hers. A healthy school life

  with plenty of games would probably do

  her a world of good. But I did rather

  wonder at the suddenness and urgency of

  Magda's decision ? Switzerland was a long

  way off. <

  h

  Sixteen

  The Old Man had said:

  "Let them talk to you."

  As I shaved the following morning, I

  considered just how far that had taken

  me.

  Edith de Haviland had talked to me --

  she had sought me out for that especial

  purpose. Clemency had talked to me (or

  had I talked to her?). Magda had talked to

  me in a sense -- that is I had formed part

  of the audience to one of her broadcasts.

  Sophia naturally had talked to me. Even

  Nannie had talked to me. Was I any the

  wiser for what I had learned from them all?

  Was there any significant word or phrase?

  More, was there any evidence of that

  abnormal vanity on which my father had

  laid stress? I couldn't see that there was.

  The only person who had shown absolutely

  no desire to talk to me in any way?

  nr on any subject, was Philip. Was not that,

  in a way, rather abnormal? He must know

  by now that I wanted to marry his daughter.

  Yet he continued to act as though I was

  not in the house at all. Presumably he

  resented my presence there. Edith de

  Haviland had apologised for him. She had

  said it was just "manner." She had shown

  herself concerned about Philip. Why?

  I considered Sophia's father. He was in

  every sense a repressed individual. He had

  been an unhappy jealous child. He had

  been forced back into himself. He had taken

  refuge in the world of books -- in the

  historical past. That studied coldness and

  reserve of his might conceal a good deal of

  passionate feeling. The inadequate motive

  of financial gain by his father's death was

  unconvincing -- I did not think for a

  moment that Philip Leonides would kill his

  father because he himself had not quite as