fashioned ideas, Charles. But you don't
quite know what my mother is capable of
yet. The darling can't help it, but there
would simply have to be a grand dramatic
scene. And dramatic scenes aren't the best
things for anyone recovering from head
injuries."
"You do think of everything, don't you,
my sweet."
"Well, somebody's got to do the thinking
now that grandfather's gone."
I looked at her speculatively. I saw that
old Leonides's acumen had not deserted
him. The mantle of his responsibilities was
already on Sophia's shoulders.
After the inquest, Gaitskill accompanied
us back to Three Gables. He cleared his
throat and said pontifically:
"There is an announcement it is my duty
to make to you all."
For this purpose the family assembled in
Magda's drawing room. I had on this
occasion the rather pleasurable sensations
of the man behind the scenes. I knew in
advance what Gaitskill had to say.
I prepared myself to observe the reactions
of everyone.
Gaitskill was brief and dry. Any signs of
personal feeling and annoyance were well
held in check. He read first Aristide
Leonides's letter and then the will itself.
t+ woe ^rv interestine to watch. I only
wished my eyes could be everywhere at
once.
I did not pay much attention to Brenda
and Laurence. The provision for Brenda in
this will was the same. I watched primarily
Roger and Philip, and after them Magda
and Clemency.
My first impression was that they all
behaved very well.
Philip's lips were pressed closely together,
his handsome head was thrown back against
the tall chair in which he was sitting. He
did not speak.
Magda, on the contrary, burst into speech
as soon as Mr. Gaitskill finished, her rich
voice surging over his thin tones like an
incoming tide drowning a rivulet.
"Darling Sophia ? how extraordinary
.... How romantic. . . . Fancy old
Sweetie Pie being so cunning and deceitful
? just like a dear old baby. Didn't he trust
us? Did he think we'd be cross? He never
seemed to be fonder of Sophia than of the
rest of us. But really, it's most dramatic."
Suddenly Magda jumped lightly to her
feet, danced over to Sophia and swept her
a very grand court curtsey.
"Madame Sophia, your penniless and
broken down old mother begs you for
alms." Her voice took on a cockney whine.
"Spare us a copper, old dear. Your Ma
wants to go to the pictures."
Her hand, crooked into a claw, twitched
urgently at Sophia.
Philip, without moving, said through stiff
lips:
"Please Magda, there's no call for any
unnecessary clowning.''
"Oh, but, Roger," cried Magda, suddenly
turning to Roger. "Poor darling Roger.
Sweetie was going to come to the rescue
and then, before he could do it, he died.
And now Roger doesn't get anything.
Sophia," she turned imperiously, "you
simply must do something about Roger."
"No," said Clemency. She had moved
forward a step. Her face was defiant.
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
Roger came shambling over to Sophia
like a large amiable bear.
He took her hands affectionately.
"I don't want a penny, my dear girl. As
soon as this business is cleared up ? or
has died down, which is more what it looks
like ? then Clemency and I are off to the
West Indies and the simple life. If I'm ever
in extremis I'll apply to the head of the
f^m}T ?" }-i{^ crrinnpd at hpr enffarinelv ?
"but until then I don't want a penny. I'm
a very simple person really, my dear ? you
ask Clemency if I'm not."
An unexpected voice broke in. It was
Edith de Haviland's.
"That's all very well," she said. "But
you've to pay some attention to the look of
the thing. If you go bankrupt, Roger, and
then slink off to the ends of the earth
without Sophia's holding out a helping
hand, there will be a good deal of ill natured
talk that will not be pleasant for Sophia."
"What does public opinion matter?"
asked Clemency scornfully.
"We know it doesn't to you. Clemency,"
said Edith de Haviland sharply, "but Sophia
lives in this world. She's a girl with good
brains and a good heart, and I've no doubt
that Aristide was quite right in his selection
of her to hold the family fortunes ? though
to pass over your two sons in their lifetime
seems odd to our English ideas ? but I
think it would be very unfortunate if it got
about that she behaved greedily over this
? and had let Roger crash without trying
to help him."
Roger went over to his aunt. He put his
arms round her and hugged her.
"Aunt Edith," he said. "You are a darling
-- and a stubborn fighter, but you don't
begin to understand. Clemency and I know
what we want -- and what we don't want!"
Clemency, a sudden spot of colour showing
in each thin cheek, stood defiantly
facing them.
"None of you," she said, "understand
Roger. You never have! I don't suppose
you ever will! Come on, Roger."
They left the room as Mr. Gaitskill began
clearing his throat and arranging his papers.
His countenance was one of deep disapprobation.
He disliked the foregoing scenes
very much. That was clear.
My eyes came at last to Sophia herself.
She stood straight and handsome by the
fireplace, her chin up, her eyes steady. She
had just been left an immense fortune, but
my principal thought was how alone she
had suddenly become. Between her and her
family a barrier had been erected. Henceforth
she was divided from them, and I
fancied that she already knew and faced
that fact. Old Leonides had laid a burden
upon her shoulders -- he had been aware
of that and she knew it herself. He had
believed that her shoulders were strong
enough to bear it, but just at this moment
I felt unutterably sorry for her.
So far she had not spoken -- indeed she
had been given no chance, but very soon
now speech would be forced from her.
Already, beneath the affection of her family 3
I could sense latent hostility. Even in
Magda's graceful playacting there had been, I fancied, a subtle malice. And there were
other darker undercurrents that had not yet
come to the surface.
Mr. Gaitskill's throat clearings gave way
to precise and measured speech.
"Allow me to congratulate you, Sophia," he said
. "You are a very wealthy woman. I
should not advise any -- er -- precipitate
action. I can advance you what ready money
is needed for current expenses. If you wish
to discuss future arrangements I shall be
happy to give you the best advice in my
power. Make an appointment with me at
Lincoln's Inn when you have had plenty of
time to think things over."
"Roger," began Edith de Haviland obstinately.
Mr. Gaitskill snapped in quickly.
"Roger," he said, "must fend for himself.
He's a grown man -- er, fifty four, I
believe. And Aristide Leonides was quite
right, you know. He isn't a businessman.
Never will be." He looked at Sophia. "If
you put Associated Catering on its legs
again, don't be under any illusions that
Roger can run it successfully."
"I shouldn't dream of putting Associated
Catering on its legs again," said Sophia.
It was the first time she had spoken. Her
voice was crisp and businesslike.
"It would be an idiotic thing to do," she
added.
Gaitskill shot a glance at her from under
his brows, and smiled to himself. Then he
wished everyone goodbye and went out.
There were a few moments of silence, a
realisation that the family circle was alone
with itself.
Then Philip got up stiffly.
"I must get back to the library," he said.
"I have lost a lot of time."
"Father --" Sophia spoke uncertainly, almost pleadingly.
I felt her quiver and draw back as Philip
turned cold hostile eyes on her.
"You must forgive me for not congratulating
you," he said. "But this has been
rather a shock to me. I would not have believed
that my father would so have humiliated
me -- that he would have disregarded
my lifetime's devotion -- yes -- devotion."
For the first time, the natural man broke
K
through the crust of icy restraint.
"My God," he cried. "How could he do
this to me? He was always unfair to me --
always."
"Oh no, Philip, no, you mustn't think
that," cried Edith de Haviland. "Don't
regard this as another slight. It isn't. When
people get old, they turn naturally to a
younger generation. ... I assure you it's
only that. . . . And besides, Aristide had
a very keen business sense. I've often heard
him say that two lots of death duties --"
"He never cared for me," said Philip.
His voice was low and hoarse. "It was
always Roger -- Roger. Well, at least --"
an extraordinary expression of spite suddenly
marred his handsome features, "father
realised that Roger was a fool and a failure.
He cut Roger out, too."
"What about me?" said Eustace.
I had hardly noticed Eustace until now, but I perceived that he was trembling with
some violent emotion. His face was crimson, there were, I thought, tears in his eyes. His
voice shook as it rose hysterically.
"It's a shame!" said Eustace. "It's a
damned shame! How dare Grandfather do
this to me? How dare he? I was his only
grandson. How dare he pass me over for
Sophia? It's not fair. I hate him. I hate
him. I'll never forgive him as long as I live.
Beastly tyrannical old man. I wanted him
to die. I wanted to get out of this house. I
wanted to be my own master. And now
I've got to be bullied and messed around
by Sophia, and made to look a fool. I wish
I was dead. ..."
His voice broke and he rushed out of the
room.
Edith de Haviland gave a sharp click of
her tongue.
"No self control 5" she murmured.
"I know just how he feels," cried Magda.
"I'm sure you do," said Edith with acidity
in her tone.
"The poor sweet! I must go after him."
"Now, Magda --" Edith hurried after
her.
Their voices died away. Sophia remained
looking at Philip. There was, I think, a
certain pleading in her glance. If so, it got
no response. He looked at her coldly, quite
in control of himself once more.
"You played your cards very well, Sophia,"
he said and went out of the room.
"That was a cruel thing to say," I cried.
"Sophia --"
She stretched out her hands to me. I took
her in my arms.
"This is too much for you, my sweet."
"I know just how they feel," said Sophia.
"That old devil, your grandfather, shouldn't have let you in for this."
She straightened her shoulders.
"He believed I could take it. And so I
can. I wish -- I wish Eustace didn't mind
so much."
"He'll get over it."
"Will he? I wonder. He's the kind that
broods terribly. And I hate father being
hurt."
"Your mother's all right."
"She minds a bit. It goes against the
grain to have to come and ask your daughter
for money to put on plays. She'll be after
me to put on the Edith Thompson one
before you can turn round."
"And what will you say? If it keeps her
happy ..."
Sophia pulled herself right out of my
arms, her head went back.
"I shall say No! It's a rotten play and
mother couldn't play the part. It would be
throwing the money away."
I laughed softly. I couldn't help it.
"What is it?" Sophia demanded suspiciously.
?T?.
'I'm beginning to understand why your
grandfather left you his money. You're a
chip off the old block, Sophia."
Twenty-one
My one feeling of regret at this time was
that Josephine was out of it all. She would
have enjoyed it all so much.
Her recovery was rapid and she was
expected to be back any day now, but
nevertheless she missed another event of
importance.
I was in the rock garden one morning
with Sophia and Brenda when a car drew
up to the front door. Taverner and Sergeant
Lamb got out of it. They went up the steps
and into the house.
Brenda stood still, staring at the car.
"It's those men," she said. "They've
come back, and I thought they'd given up
_ ? I thought it was all over."
K I saw her shiver.
She had joined us about ten minutes
s before. Wrapped in her chinchilla coat, she
had said "If I don't get some air and
? exercise, I shall go mad. If I go outside the
gate there's always a reporter waiting to
pounce on me. It's like being besieged. Will
it go on for ever?"
Sophia said that she supposed the reporters
would soon get tired of it.
"You can go out in the car," she added.
"I tell you I want to get some exercise."
Then she said abruptly:
"You've given Laurence the sack, Sophia.
Why?"
Sophia answered quietly:
"We're making other arrangements for
Eustace. And Josephine is going to Switzerland."
"Well, you've upset Laurence very much.
He feels you don't trust him."
Sophia did not reply and it was at that
moment that Taverner's car had arrived.
Standing there, shivering in the moist autumn air, Brenda muttered, "What do
they want? Why have they come?"
I thought I knew why they had come. I
had said nothing to Sophia of the letters I
had found by the cistern, but I knew that
they had gone to the Director of Public
Prosecutions.
Taverner came out of the house again.
He walked across the drive and the lawn
towards us. Brenda shivered more violently.
"What does he want?" she repeated
nervously. "What does he want?"
Then Taverner was with us. He spoke
curtly in his official voice using the official
phrases.
"I have a warrant here for your arrest ?
you are charged with administering eserine
to Aristide Leonides on September 19th
last. I must warn you that anything you say
may be used in evidence at your trial."
And then Brenda went to pieces. She
screamed. She clung to me. She cried out,
"No, no, no, it isn't true! Charles, tell them
it isn't true! I didn't do it. I didn't know
f anything about it. It's all a plot. Don't let
them take me away. It isn't true, I tell
you. ... It isn't true. ... I haven't done
anything. ..."
It was horrible ? unbelievably horrible.
I tried to soothe her, I unfastened her
fingers from my arm. I told her that I
would arrange for a lawyer for her ? that
she was to keep calm ? that a lawyer would
arrange everything. . . .
Taverner took her gently under the elbow.
"Come along, Mrs. Leonides," he said.
"You don't want a hat, do you? No? Then
we'll go off right away."
She pulled back, staring at him with
enormous cat's eyes.
"Laurence," she said. "What have you
done to Laurence?"
"Mr. Laurence Brown is also under
arrest," said Taverner.
She wilted then. Her body seemed to
collapse and shrink. The tears poured down
her face. She went away quietly with
Taverner across the lawn to the car. I saw
Laurence Brown and Sergeant Lamb come
out of the house. They all got into the
car. . . . The car drove away.
I drew a deep breath and turned to
Sophia. She was very pale and there was a
look of distress on her face.
"It's horrible, Charles," she said. "It's
quite horrible."
"I know."
"You must get her a really first class
solicitor ? the best there is. She ? she
must have all the help possible."
"One doesn't realise," I said, "what these
things are like. I've never seen anyone
arrested before."
"I know. One has no idea."
We were both silent. I was thinking of
the desperate terror on Brenda's face. It
had seemed familiar to me and suddenly I
realised why. It was the same expression
that I had seen on Magda Leonides's face
the first day I had come to the Crooked
House when she had been talking about the
Edith Thompson play.
"And then," she had said, "sheer terror, don't you think so?"
Sheer terror -- that was what had been
on Brenda's face. Brenda was not a fighter.
I wondered that she had ever had the nerve
to do murder. But possibly she had not.
Possibly it had been Laurence Brown, with
his persecution mania, his unstable personality
who had put the contents of one little
bottle into another little bottle -- a simple
easy act -- to free the woman he loved.
"So it's over," said Sophia.
She sighed deeply, then asked:
"But why arrest them now? I thought
there wasn't enough evidence."
"A certain amount of evidence has come
to light. Letters."
"You mean love letters between them?"
"Yes."
"What fools people are to keep these
things!"
Yes, indeed. Fools. The kind of folly
which never seemed to profit by the
experience of others. You couldn't open a
daily newspaper without coming across some
instance of that folly ? the passion to keep
the written word, the written assurance of
love.
"It's quite beastly, Sophia," I said. "But
it's no good minding about it. After all, it's
what we've been hoping all along, isn't it?
It's what you said that first night at Mario's.
You said it would be all right if the right
person had killed your grandfather. Brenda
was the right person, wasn't she? Brenda
or Laurence?"
"Don't. Charles, you make me feel
awful."
"But we must be sensible. We can marry
now, Sophia. You can't hold me off any
longer. The Leonides family are out of it."
She stared at me. I had never realised
before the vivid blue of her eyes.
"Yes," she said. "I suppose we're out of
it now. We are out of it, aren't we? You're
sure?"
"My dear girl, none of you really had a
shadow of motive."
Her face went suddenly white.
"Except me, Charles. I had a motive."
"Yes, of course ?" I was taken aback.
"But not really. You didn't know, you see,
about the will."
"But I did, Charles," she whispered. ?|
"What?" I stared at her. I felt suddenly