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