much money as he would like to have. But
there might have been some deep psychological
reason for his desiring his father's
death. Philip had come back to his father's
house to live, and later, as a result of the Blitz Roger had come -- and Philip had
been obliged to see day by day that Roger ^as his father's favourite. . . . Might [things have come to such a pass in his
tortured mind that the only relief possible
was his father's death? And supposing that
that death should incriminate his elder
brother? Roger was short of money -- on
the verge of a crash. Knowing nothing of
that last interview between Roger and his
father and the latter's offer of assistance, might not Philip have believed that the
motive would seem so powerful that Roger
would be at once suspected? Was Philip's
mental balance sufficiently disturbed to lead
him to do murder?
I cut my chin with the razor and swore.
What the hell was I trying to do? Fasten
murder on Sophia's father? That was a nice
thing to try and do! That wasn't what
Sophia had wanted me to come down here
for.
Or -- was it? There was something, had
been something all along, behind Sophia's
appeal. If there was any lingering suspicion
in her mind that her father was the killer,
then she would never consent to marry me
-- in case that suspicion might be true.
And since she was Sophia, clear-eyed and
brave, she wanted the truth, since uncertainty
would be an eternal and perpetual
barrier between us. Hadn't she been in
effect saying to me, "Prove that this dread ful thing I am imagining is not true ?
but if it is true, then prove its truth to me
? so that I can know the worst and face
it!"
Did Edith de Haviland know, or suspect,
that Philip was guilty. What had she meant
by "this side idolatry"?
And what had Clemency meant by that
peculiar look she had thrown at me when I
asked her who she suspected and she had
answered: "Laurence and Brenda are the
obvious suspects, aren't they?"
The whole family wanted it to be Brenda
and Laurence, hoped it might be Brenda
and Laurence, but didn't really believe it
was Brenda and Laurence. ...
And of course, the whole family might
be wrong, and it might really be Laurence
and Brenda after all.
Or, it might be Laurence, and not
Brenda. . . .
That would be a much better solution.
I finished dabbing at my cut chin and
went down to breakfast filled with the
determination to have an interview with
Laurence Brown as soon as possible.
It was only as I drank my second cup of
coffee that it occurred to me that the
Crooked House was having its effect on me
also. I, too, wanted to find, not the true
solution, but the solution that suited me
best.
After breakfast I went out through the
hall and up the stairs. Sophia had told
me that I should find Laurence giving instruction
to Eustace and Josephine in the
schoolroom.
I hesitated on the landing outside Brenda's
front door. Did I ring and knock, or did I
walk right in? I decided to treat the house
as an integral Leonides home and not as
Brenda's private residence.
I opened the door and passed inside.
Everything was quiet, there seemed to be
no one about. On my left the door into the
big drawing room was closed. On my right
two open doors showed a bedroom and
adjoining bathroom. This I knew was the
bathroom adjoining Aristide Leonides5 s
bedroom where the eserine and the insulin
had been kept. The police had finished with
it now. I pushed the door open and slipped
inside. I realised then how easy it would
have been for anyone in the house (or from
outside the house for the matter of that!)
to come up here and into the bathroom
unseen.
T stood in the bathroom looking round.
It was sumptuously appointed with gleaming
tiles and a sunk bath. At one side were
various electric appliances; a hot plate and
grill under, an electric kettle ? a small
electric saucepan, a toaster ? everything
that a valet attendant to an old gentleman
might need. On the wall was a white
enamelled cupboard. I opened it. Inside
were medical appliances, two medicine
glasses, eyebath, eye dropper and a few
labelled bottles. Aspirin, Boracic powder,
iodine. Elastoplast bandages, etc. On a
separate shelf were the stacked supply of
insulin, two hypodermic needles, and a
bottle of surgical spirit. On a third shelf
was a bottle marked The Tablets ? one or
two to be taken at night as ordered. On
this shelf, no doubt, had stood the bottle
of eyedrops. It was all clear, well arranged,
easy for anyone to get at if needed, and
equally easy to get at for murder.
I could do what I liked with the bottles
and then go softly out and downstairs again
and nobody would ever know I had been
there. All this was, of course, nothing new,
but it brought home to me how difficult
the task of the police was.
Only from the guilty party or parties
could one find out what one needed.
?(1
'Rattle 'em," Taverner had said to me.
"Get 'em on the run. Make 'em think we're
on. to something. Keep ourselves well in
th
criminal will stop leaving well alone and try
to be smarter still ? and then ? we've got
hLm."
Well, the criminal hadn't reacted to this
treatment so far.
I came out of the bathroom. Still no one
about. I went on along the corridor. I
passed the dining room on the left, and
Brenda's bedroom and bathroom on the
right. In the latter, one of the maids was
moving about. The dining room door was
closed. From a room beyond that, I heard
Edith de Haviland's voice telephoning to
tlie inevitable fishmonger. A spiral flight of
s-tairs led to the floor above. I went up
them. Edith's bedroom and sitting room
was here, I knew, and two more bathrooms
and Laurence Brown's room. Beyond that
again the short flight of steps down to the
big room built out over the servant's
(quarters at the back which was used as a
schoolroom.
Outside the door I paused. Laurence
3rown's voice could be heard, slightly
rnKipd. from inside.
I think Josephine's habit of snooping must
have been catching. Quite unashamedly
I leaned against the door jamb and listened.
It was a history lesson that was in
prog
ress, and the period in question was
the French directoire.
As I listened astonishment opened my
eyes. It was a considerable surprise to me
to discover that Laurence Brown was a
magnificent teacher.
I don't know why it should have surprised
me so much. After all 5 Aristide Leonides
had always been a good picker of men. For
all his mouselike exterior, Laurence had
that supreme gift of being able to arouse
enthusiasm and imagination in his pupils.
The drama of Thermidor, the decree of
Outlawry against the Robespierrists, the
magnificence of Barras, the cunning of
Fouche ? Napoleon, the half starved young
gunner lieutenant ? all these were real and
living.
Suddenly Laurence stopped, he asked
Eustace and Josephine a question, he made
them put themselves in the places of first
one and then another figure in the drama.
Though he did not get much result from
Josephine whose voice sounded as though
she had a cold in the head, Eustace sounded
quite different from his usual moody self.
He showed brains and intelligence and the
keen historical sense which he had doubtless
inherited from his father.
Then I heard the chairs being pushed
back and scraped across the floor. I retreated
up the steps and was apparently just coming
down them when the door opened.
Eustace and Josephine came out.
"Hullo," I said.
Eustace looked surprised to see me.
"Do you want anything?" he asked
politely.
Josephine, taking no interest in my presence, slipped past me.
"I just wanted to see the schoolroom," I
said rather feebly.
"You saw it the other day, didn't you?
It's just a kid's place really. Used to be the
nursery. It's still got a lot of toys in it."
He held the door open for me and I went
in.
Laurence Brown stood by the table. He
looked up, flushed, murmured something
in answer to my good morning and went
hurriedly out. m
"You've scareS him," said Eustace. "He's
very easily scared."
"Do you like him, Eustace?"
"Oh! he's all right. An awful ass, of
course."
"But not a bad teacher?"
"No, as a matter of fact he's quite
interesting. He knows an awful lot. He
makes you see things from a different angle.
I never knew that Henry the Eighth wrote
poetry -- to Anne Boleyn, of course --
jolly decent poetry."
We talked for a few moments on such
subjects as The Ancient Mariner, Chaucer, the political implications behind the Crusades, the Mediaeval approach to life, and
the, to Eustace, surprising fact that Oliver
Cromwell had prohibited the celebration of
Christmas Day. Behind Eustace's scornful
and rather ill-tempered manner there was, I perceived, an inquiring and able mind.
Very soon I began to realise the source
of his ill humour. His illness had not only
been a frightening ordeal, it had also been
a frustration and a setback, just at a moment
when he had been enjoying life.
<
term -- and I'd got my house colours. It's
Pretty thick to have to stop at home and do
lessons with a rotten kid like Josephine. Why, she's only twelve."
"Yes, but you don't have the same
studies 5 do you?"
"No, of course she doesn't do advanced
maths ? or Latin. But you don't want to
have to share a tutor with a girl."
I tried to soothe his injured male pride
by remarking that Josephine was quite an
intelligent girl for her age.
"D'you think so? I think she's awfully
wet. She's mad keen on this detecting stuff
? goes round poking her nose in everywhere
and writing things down in a little black
book and pretending that she's finding out
a lot. Just a silly kid, that's all she is," said
Eustace loftily.
"Anyway," he added, "girls can't be
detectives. I told her so. I think mother's
quite right and the sooner Jo's packed off
to Switzerland the better."
"Wouldn't you miss her?"
"Miss a kid of that age?" said Eustace
haughtily. "Of course not. My goodness,
this house is the absolute limit! Mother
always haring up and down to London and
bullying tame dramatists to rewrite plays
for her, and making frightful fusses about
nothing at all. And father shut up with his
books and sometimes not hearing you if
you speak to him. I don't see why I should
-- ^ u/, Km./-i^,-?^ri with such oeculiar Jy
parents. Then there's Uncle Roger ? always
so hearty that it makes you shudder. Aunt
Clemency's all right, she doesn't bother
you, but I sometimes think she's a bit
batty. Aunt Edith's not too bad, but she's
old. Things have been a bit more cheerful
since Sophia came back ? though she can
be pretty sharp sometimes. But it is a queer
household, don't you think so? Having a
stepgrandmother young enough to be your
aunt or your older sister. I mean, it makes
you feel an awful ass!"
I had some comprehension of his feelings.
I remembered (very dimly) my own supersensitiveness
at Eustace's age. My horror of
appearing in any way unusual or of my near
relatives departing from the normal.
"What about your grandfather?" I said.
"Were you fond of him?"
A curious expression flitted across Eustace's
face.
"Grandfather," he said, "was definitely
antisocial!"
"In what way?"
"He thought of nothing but the profit
motive. Laurence says that's completely
wrong. And he was a great individualist.
All that sort of thing has got to go, don't
I you think so?"
"Well," I said rather brutally, "he has
gone."
"A good thing, really," said Eustace. "I
don't want to be callous, but you can't
really enjoy life at that age!"
"Didn't he?"
"He couldn't have. Anyway, it was time
he went. He --" Eustace broke off as
Laurence Brown came back into the schoolroom.
Laurence began fussing about with some
books, but I thought that he was watching
me out of the corner of his eye.
He looked at his wrist-watch and said:
"Please be back here sharp at eleven, Eustace. We've wasted too much time the
last few days."
"O.K., sir."
Eustace lounged towards the door and
went out whistling.
Laurence Brown darted another sharp
glance at me. He moistened his lips once
or twice. I was convinced that he had come
back into the schoolroom solely in order to
talk to me.
Pr
esently, after a little aimless stacking
and unstacking of books and a pretence of
looking for a book that was missing, he
"Er -- How are they getting on?" he
said.
"They?"
"The police."
His nose twitched. A mouse in a trap, I
thought, a mouse in a trap.
"They don't take me into their confidence,"
I said.
"Oh. I thought your father was the
Assistant Commissioner."
"He is," I said. "But naturally he would
not betray official secrets."
I made my voice purposely pompous.
"Then you don't know how -- what --
if . . ." His voice trailed off. "They're not
going to make an arrest, are they?"
"Not so far as I know. But then, as I
say, I mightn't know."
Get 'em on the run. Inspector Taverner
had said. Get 'em rattled. Well, Laurence
Brown was rattled all right.
He began talking quickly and nervously.
"You don't know what it's like. . . .
The strain. . . . Not knowing what -- I mean, they just come and go -- Asking
questions. . . . Questions that don't seem
to have anything to do with the case. . . ."
He broke off. I waited. He wanted to
talk -- well, then, let him talk.
"You were there when the Chief Inspector
made that monstrous suggestion the other
day? About Mrs. Leonides and myself.
... It was monstrous. It makes one
feel so helpless. One is powerless to prevent
people thinking things! And it is all so
wickedly untrue. Just because she is -- was
-- so many years younger than her husband.
People have dreadful minds -- dreadful
minds. ... I feel -- I can't help feeling, that it is all a plot."
"A plot? That's interesting."
It was interesting, though not quite in
the way he took it.
"The family, you know; Mr. Leonides5 s
family, have never been sympathetic to me.
They were always aloof. I always felt that
they despised me."
His hands began to shake.
"Just because they have always been rich
-- and powerful. They looked down on me.
What was I to them? Only the tutor. Only
a wretched conscientious objector. And my
objections were conscientious. They were
indeed!"
I said nothing. K
"All right then," he burst out. "What if
I was -- afraid? Afraid I'd make a mess of ^ Afraid that when I had to pull a trigger
-- I mightn't be able to bring myself to do
it. How can you be sure it's a Nazi you're
going to kill? It might be some decent lad
-- some village boy -- with no political
leanings, just called up for his country's
service. I believe war is wrong 5 do you
understand? I believe it is wrong."
I was still silent. I believed that my
silence was achieving more than any arguments
or agreements could do. Laurence
Brown was arguing with himself, and in so
doing was revealing a good deal of himself.
"Everyone's always laughed at me." His
voice shook. "I seem to have a knack of
making myself ridiculous. It isn't that I
really lack courage -- but I always do the
thing wrong. I went into a burning house
to rescue a woman they said was trapped
there. But I lost the way at once, and the
smoke made me unconscious, and it gave a
lot of trouble to the firemen finding me. I
heard them say, "Why couldn't the silly
chump leave it to us?' It's no good my
trying, everyone's against me. Whoever
killed Mr. Leonides arranged it so that I
would be suspected. Someone killed him so
as to ruin me."
"What about Mrs. Leonides?" I asked.
He flushed. He became less of a mouse
and more like a man.
"Mrs. Leonides is an angel," he said, "an angel. Her sweetness, her kindness to
her elderly husband were wonderful. To
think of her in connection with poison is
laughable -- laughable! And that thickheaded
Inspector can't see it!"
"He's prejudiced," I said, "by the number
of cases on his files where elderly
husbands have been poisoned by sweet
young wives."
"The insufferable dolt," said Laurence
Brown angrily.
He went over to a bookcase in the corner
and began rummaging the books in it. I
didn't think I should get anything more out
of him. I went slowly out of the room.
As I was going along the passage, a door
on my left opened and Josephine almost
fell on top of me. Her appearance had the
suddenness of a demon in an old-fashioned
pantomime.
Her face and hands were filthy and a
large cobweb floated from one ear.
"Where have you been, Josephine?"
I peered through the half open door. A
couple of steps led up into the attic-like
rectangular space in the gloom of which --,r^,.oi iqrcr^ ranks could be seen.
"In the cistern room."
"Why in the cistern room?"
Josephine replied in a brief businesslike
way:
"Detecting."
"What on earth is there to detect among
the cisterns?"
To this, Josephine merely replied:
"I must wash."
"I should say most decidedly."
Josephine disappeared through the nearest
bathroom door. She looked back to say:
"I should say it's about time for the next
murder, wouldn't you?"
"What do you mean -- the next murder?" ? , "Well, in books there's always a second ^nturder about now. Someone who knows