Read Crooked House Page 17

cold.

  "I knew all the time that grandfather had

  left his money to me."

  "But how?"

  "He told me. About a fortnight before

  he was killed. He said to me quite suddenly 5

  'I've left all my money to you, Sophia. You

  must look after the family when I'm gone.' "

  I stared.

  "You never told me."

  "No. You see, when they all explained

  about the will and his signing it, I thought

  perhaps he had made a mistake ? that he

  was just imagining that he had left it to me.

  Or that if he had made a will leaving it to

  me, then it had got lost and would never

  turn up. I didn't want it to turn up ? I

  was afraid."

  "Afraid? Why?"

  "I suppose ? because of murder."

  I remembered the look of terror on

  Brenda's face ? the wild unreasoning panic.

  I remembered the sheer panic that Magda

  had conjured up at will when she considered

  playing the part of a murderess. There

  would be no panic in Sophia's mind, but

  she was a realist, and she could see clearly

  enough that Leonides's will made her a

  suspect. I understood better now (or thought

  I did) her refusal to become engaged to me

  and her insistence that I should find out

  the truth. Nothing but the truth, she had

  said, was any good to her. I remembered

  the passion, the earnestness with which she

  had said it.

  We had turned to walk towards the house

  and suddenly, at a certain spot, I remembered

  something else she had said.

  She had said that she supposed she could

  murder someone, but if so, she had added, it must be for something really worth while.

  Twenty-two

  Round a turn of the rock garden Roger and

  Clemency came walking briskly towards us.

  Roger's flapping tweeds suited him better

  than his City clothes. He looked eager and

  excited. Clemency was frowning.

  "Hullo, you two," said Roger. "At last!

  I thought they were never going to arrest

  that foul woman. What they've been waiting

  for, I don't know. Well, they've pinched

  her now, and her miserable boy friend ?

  and I hope they hang them both."

  Clemency's frown increased. She said:

  "Don't be so uncivilised, Roger."

  "Uncivilised? Bosh! Deliberate coldblooded

  poisoning of a helpless trusting old

  man ? and when I'm glad the murderers

  are caught and will pay the penalty you say

  I'm uncivilised! I tell you I'd willingly

  strangle that woman myself."

  He added:

  "She was with you, wasn't she, when the

  police came for her? How did she take it?"

  "It was horrible," said Sophia in a low

  voice. "She was scared out of her wits.55

  "Serves her right.55

  "Doi^t be vindictive,55 said Clemency.

  "Oh I know, dearest, but you can5! understand. It wasn5! your father. I loved

  my father. Don5! you understand? I loved

  him!55

  "I should understand by now,55 said

  Clemency.

  Roger said to her, half jokingly:

  "You^e no imagination. Clemency. Suppose

  it had been I who had been poisoned

  --?55

  I saw the quick droop of her lids, her

  half-clenched hands. She said sharply:

  "Don5! say things like that even in fun.55

  "Never mind darling, we5!! soon be away

  from all this.55

  We moved towards the house. Roger and

  Sophia walked ahead and Clemency and I

  brought up the rear. She said:

  "I suppose now -- they5!! let us go?'5

  "Are you so anxious to get off?551 asked.

  " It5 s wearing me out.55

  I looked at her in surprise. She met my

  glance with a faint desperate smile and a

  nod of the head.

  "Haven't you seen, Charles, that I'm

  fighting all the time? Fighting for my

  happiness. For Roger's. I've been so afraid

  the family would persuade him to stop in

  England. That we'd go on tangled up in

  the midst of them, stifled with family ties.

  I was afraid Sophia would offer him an

  hcome and that he'd stay in England

  because it would mean greater comfort and

  amenities for me. The trouble with Roger

  is that he will not listen. He gets ideas in

  his head -- and they're never the right

  ideas. He doesn't know anything. And he's

  enough of a Leonides to think that happiness

  for a woman is bound up with comfort

  and money. But I will fight for my happiness

  -- I will. I will get Roger away and give

  him the life that suits him where he won't

  feel a failure. I want him to myself-- away

  from them all -- right away. ..."

  She had spoken in a low hurried voice

  with a kind of desperation that startled me.

  I had not realised how much on edge she

  was. I had not realised, either, quite how

  desperate and possessive was her feeling for

  Roger.

  It brought back to my mind that odd

  quotation of Edith de Haviland's. She had

  quoted the line "this side of idolatry" with

  a peculiar intonation. I wondered if she had

  been thinking of Clemency.

  Roger, I thought, had loved his father

  better than he would ever love anyone else,

  better even than his wife, devoted though

  he was to her. I realised for the first time

  how urgent was Clemency's desire to get

  her husband to herself. Love for Roger, I

  saw, made up her entire existence. He was

  her child, as well as her husband and her

  lover.

  A car drove up to the front door.

  "Hullo," I said. "Here's Josephine

  back."

  Josephine and Magda got out of the car.

  Josephine had a bandage round her head

  but otherwise looked remarkably well.

  She said at once:

  "I want to see my goldfish," and started

  towards us and the pond.

  "Darling," cried Magda, "you'd better

  come in first and lie down a little, and

  perhaps have a little nourishing soup."

  "Don't fuss, mother," said Josephine.

  "I'm quite all right, and I hate nourishing

  soup."

  Magda looked irresolute. I knew that

  Josephine had really been fit to depart from

  the hospital for some days, and that it was _J

  only a hint from Taverner that had kept

  her there. He was taking no chances on

  Josephine's safety until his suspects were

  safe under lock and key.

  I said to Magda:

  "I daresay fresh air will do her good. I'll

  go and keep an eye on her."

  I caught Josephine up before she got to

  the pond.

  "All sorts of things have been happening

  while you've been away," I said.

  Josephine did not reply. She peered with

  her short-sighted eyes into the pond.

  "I don't see Ferdinand," she said.

 
"Which is Ferdinand?"

  "The one with four tails."

  "That kind is rather amusing. I like that

  bright gold one."

  "It's quite a common one."

  "I don't much care for that motheaten

  white one."

  Josephine cast me a scornful glance.

  "That's a shebunkin. They cost a lot ?

  far more than goldfish."

  "Don't you want to hear what's been

  happening, Josephine?"

  "I expect I know about it."

  "Did you know that another will has

  been found and that your grandfather left

  all his money to Sophia?"

  Josephine nodded in a bored kind of way.

  "Mother told me. Anyway, I knew it

  already."

  "Do you mean you heard it in the

  hospital?"

  "No, I mean I knew that grandfather

  had left his money to Sophia. I heard him

  tell her so."

  "Were you listening again?"

  "Yes. I like listening."

  "It's a disgraceful thing to do, and

  remember this, listeners hear no good of

  themselves."

  Josephine gave me a peculiar glance.

  "I heard what he said about me to her,

  if that's what you mean."

  She added:

  "Nannie gets wild if she catches me

  listening at doors. She says it's not the sort

  of thing a little lady does."

  "She's quite right."

  "Pooh," said Josephine. "Nobody's a

  lady nowadays. They say so on the Brains

  Trust. They said it was ? ob-so-lete." She

  pronounced the word carefully.

  I changed the subject.

  "You've got home a bit late for the big

  event," I said. "Chief Inspector Taverner

  has arrested Brenda and Laurence."

  I expected that Josephine, in her character

  of young detective, would be thrilled by

  this information, but she merely repeated

  in her maddening bored fashion:

  "Yes, I know."

  "You can't know. It's only just happened."

  "The car passed us on the road. Inspector

  Taverner and the detective with the suede

  shoes were inside with Brenda and Laurence, so of course I knew they must have

  been arrested. I hope he gave them the

  proper caution. You have to, you know."

  I assured her that Taverner had acted

  strictly according to etiquette.

  "I had to tell him about the letters," I

  said apologetically. "I found them behind

  the cistern. I'd have let you tell him only

  you were knocked out."

  Josephine's hand went gingerly to her

  head.

  "I ought to have been killed," she said

  with complacency. "I told you it was about

  the time for the second murder. The cistern

  was a rotten place to hide those letters. I

  guessed at once when I saw Laurence

  coming out of there one day. I mean he's

  not a useful kind of man who does things

  with ball taps, or pipes or fuses, so I knew

  he must have been hiding something."

  "But I thought --" I broke off as Edith

  de Haviland's voice called authoritatively:

  "Josephine. Josephine, come here at

  once."

  Josephine sighed.

  "More fuss," she said. "But I'd better

  go. You have to, if it's Aunt Edith."

  She ran across the lawn. I followed more

  slowly.

  After a brief interchange of words Josephine

  went into the house. I joined Edith

  de Haviland on the terrace.

  This morning she looked fully her age. I

  was startled by the lines of weariness and

  suffering on her face. She looked exhausted

  and defeated. She saw the concern in my

  face and tried to smile.

  "That child seems none the worse for

  her adventure," she said. "We must look

  after her better in future. Still -- I suppose

  now it won't be necessary?"

  She sighed and said:

  "I'm glad it's over. But what an exhibition.

  If you are arrested for murder, you

  might at least have some dignity. I've no

  patience with people like Brenda who go to

  pieces and squeal. No guts, these people.

  Laurence Brown looked like a cornered

  rabbit."

  An obscure instinct of pity rose in me.

  "Poor devils," I said.

  "Yes -- poor devils. She'll have the sense

  to look after herself, I suppose? I mean the

  right lawyers -- all that sort of thing."

  It was queer, I thought, the dislike they

  all had for Brenda, and their scrupulous

  care for her to have all the advantages for

  defence.

  Edith de Haviland went on:

  "How long will it be? How long will the

  whole thing take?"

  I said I didn't know exactly. They would

  be charged at the police court and presumably

  sent for trial. Three or four months, I

  estimated -- and if convicted, there would

  be the appeal.

  "Do you think they will be convicted?"

  she asked.

  "I don't know. I don't know exactly how

  much evidence the police have. There are

  letters."

  "Love letters? They were lovers then?"

  "They were in love with each other."

  Her face grew grimmer.

  "I'm not happy about this, Charles. I ^ don't like Brenda. In the past, I've disliked

  her very much. I've said sharp things about

  her. But now -- I do feel that I want her

  to have every chance -- every possible

  chance. Aristide would have wished that. I

  feel it's up to me to see that -- that Brenda

  gets a square deal."

  "And Laurence?"

  "Oh Laurence!" she shrugged her shoulders

  impatiently. "Men must look after

  themselves. But Aristide would never forgive

  us if --" She left the sentence

  unfinished.

  Then she said:

  "It must be almost lunch time. We'd

  better go in."

  I explained that I was going up to

  London.

  "In your car?"

  "Yes." . ,

  "H'm. I wonder if you'd take me with

  you. I gather we're allowed off the lead

  now."

  "Of course I will, but I believe Magda

  and Sophia are going up after lunch. You'll

  be more comfortable with them than in my

  two seater."

  "I don't want to go with them. Take me

  with you, and don't say much about it."

  I was surprised, but I did as she asked.

  We did not speak much on the way to

  town. I asked her where I should put her

  down.

  "Harley Street.55

  I felt some faint apprehension, but I

  didn5! like to say anything. She continued:

  "No, it's too early. Drop me at Debenhams.

  I can have some lunch there and go

  to Harley Street afterwards.55

  "I hope --55 I began and stopped.

  "That^ why I didn't want to go up with

  Magda. She dramatizes things. Lot of fuss.55

  "I'm very sorry,55 I said.

  "You needn5! be. Fve had a good
life. A

  very good life.55 She gave a sudden grin.

  "And it's not over yet.55

  Twenty-three

  I had not seen my father for some days.

  I found him busy with things other than

  the Leonides case, and I went in search of

  Taverner.

  Taverner was enjoying a short spell of

  leisure and was willing to come out and

  have a drink with me.. I congratulated him

  on having cleared up the case and he

  accepted my congratulations, but his manner

  remained far from jubilant.

  "Well, that's over," he said. "We've got

  a case. Nobody can deny that we've got a

  case."

  "Do you think you'll get a conviction?"

  "Impossible to say. The evidence is

  circumstantial -- it nearly always is in a

  murder case -- bound to be. A lot depends

  on the impression they make on the jury."

  "How far do the letters go?"

  "At first sight, Charles, they're pretty

  damning. There are references to their life

  together when her husband's dead. Phrases

  like -- 'it won't be long now.' Mind you, defence counsel will try and twist it the

  other way -- the husband was so old that

  of course they could reasonably expect him

  to die. There's no actual mention of poisoning

  -- not down in black or white --

  but there are some passages that could mean

  that. It depends what judge we get. If it's

  old Carberry he'll be down on them all

  through. He's always very righteous about

  illicit love. I suppose they'll have Eagles or

  Humphrey Kerr for the defence -- Humphrey

  is magnificent in these cases -- but

  he likes a gallant war record or something

  of that kind to help him do his stuff. A

  conscientious objector is going to cramp his

  style. The question is going to be will the

  jury like them? You can never tell with

  juries. You know, Charles, those two are

  not really sympathetic characters. She's a

  good looking woman who married a very

  old man for his money, and Brown is a

  neurotic conscientious objector. The crime

  is so familiar -- so according to pattern

  that you can't really believe they didn't do

  it. Of course, they may decide that he did

  it and she knew nothing about it -- or

  alternatively that she did it, and he didn't

  know about it -- or they may decide that

  they were both in it together."

  "And what do you yourself think?" I

  asked.

  He looked at me with a wooden expressionless

  face.

  "I don't think anything. I've turned in

  the facts and they went to the D.P.P. and

  it was decided that there was a case. That's

  all. I've done my duty and I'm out of it.

  So now you know, Charles."

  But I didn't know. I saw that for some

  reason Taverner was unhappy.

  It was not until three days later that I

  unburdened myself to my father. He himself

  had never mentioned the case to me. There

  had been a kind of restraint between us --

  and I thought I knew the reason for it. But

  I had to break down that barrier.

  "We've got to have this out," I said.

  "Taverner's not satisfied that those two did

  it -- and you're not satisfied either."

  My father shook his head. He said what

  Taverner had said:

  "It's out of our hands. There is a case to

  answer. No question about that."

  "But you don't -- Taverner doesn't --

  think that they're guilty?"

  "That's for a jury to decide."

  "For God's sake," I said, "don't put me

  off with technical terms. What do you think

  -- both of you -- personally?"

  "My personal opinion is no better than

  yours, Charles."

  "Yes, it is. You've more experience."

  "Then I'll be honest with you. I just --

  don't know!"

  "They could be guilty?"

  "Oh yes."

  "But you don't feel sure that they are?"

  My father shrugged his shoulders.

  "How can one be sure?"

  "Don't fence with me, dad. You've been

  sure other times, haven't you? Dead sure? No doubt in your mind at all?"

  "Sometimes, yes. Not always."

  "I wish to God you were sure this time."

  "So do I."

  We were silent. I was thinking of those

  two figures drifting in from the garden in

  the dusk. Lonely and haunted and afraid.

  They had been afraid from the start. Didn't

  that show a guilty conscience?

  But I answered myself: "Not necessarily."

  Both Brenda and Laurence were afraid of

  life -- they had no confidence in themselves, in their ability to avoid danger and defeat, and they could see, only too clearlv. the

  pattern of illicit love leading to murder

  which might involve them at any moment.

  My father spoke, and his voice was grave

  and kind:

  "Come, Charles," he said, "let's face it.

  You've still got it in your mind, haven't

  you, that one of the Leonides family is the

  real culprit?"

  "Not really. I only wonder --"

  "You do think so. You may be wrong, but you do think so."

  "Yes," I said.

  "Why?"

  "Because --" I thought about it, trying

  to see clearly -- to bring my wits to bear

  -- "because" (yes, that was it) "because

  they think so themselves."

  "They think so themselves? That's interesting.

  That's very interesting. Do you

  mean that they all suspect each other, or

  that they know, actually, who did do it."

  "I'm not sure," I said. "It's all very

  nebulous and confused. I think -- on the

  whole -- that they try to cover up the

  knowledge from themselves." ^My father nodded.

  "Not Roger," I said. "Roger wholeheartedly