Read Crooked House Page 5

amateur class rather than the professional.

  She's good, mind you, especially in comedy

  ? but managers don't like her much ?

  they say she's too independent, and she's a

  trouble maker ? foments rows and enjoys

  a bit of mischief making. I don't know how

  much of it is true ? but she's not too

  popular amongst her fellow artists."

  Sophia came out of the drawing room

  and said "My mother is in here. Chief

  Inspector."

  I followed Taverner into the big drawing

  room. For a moment I hardly recognised

  the woman who sat on the brocaded settee.

  The Titian hair was piled high on her

  head in an Edwardian coiffure, and she was

  dressed in a well cut dark grey coat and

  skirt with a delicately pleated pale mauve

  shirt fastened at the neck by a small cameo

  brooch. For the first time I was aware of

  the charm of her delightfully tip tilted nose.

  I was faintly reminded of Athene Seyler ?

  and it seemed quite impossible to believe

  that this was the tempestuous creature in

  the peach negligee.

  "Inspector Taverner?" she said. "Do

  come in and sit down. Will you smoke?

  This is a most terrible business. I simply

  feel at the moment that I just can't take it

  ^ "

  m.

  Her voice was low and emotionless 5 the

  voice of a person determined at all costs to

  display self control. She went on: "Please

  tell me if I can help you in any way."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Leonides. Where were

  you at the time of the tragedy?"

  "I suppose I must have been driving

  down from London. I'd lunched that day

  at the Ivy with a friend. Then we'd gone

  to a dress show. We had a drink with some

  other friends at the Berkeley. Then I started

  home. When I got here everything was in

  commotion. It seemed my father-in-law had

  had a sudden seizure. He was -- dead."

  Her voice trembled just a little.

  "You were fond of your father-in-law?"

  "I was devoted --"

  Her voice rose. Sophia adjusted, very

  slightly, the angle of the Degas picture.

  Magda's voice dropped to its former subdued

  tone.

  "I was very fond of him," she said in a

  quiet voice. "We all were. He was -- very

  good to us."

  "Did you get on well with Mrs. Leonides?"

  "We didn't see very much of Brenda."

  "Why was that?"

  "Well, we hadn't much in common. Poor

  dear Brenda. Life must have been hard for

  her sometimes."

  Again Sophia fiddled with the Degas.

  "Indeed? In what way?"

  "Oh, I don't know." Magda shook her

  head, with a sad little smile.

  "Was Mrs. Leonides happy with her

  husband?"

  "Oh, I think so."

  "No quarrels?" |

  Again the slight smiling shake of the

  head. ?

  "I really don't know, Inspector. Their

  part of the house is quite separate."

  "She and Mr. Laurence Brown were very

  friendly, were they not?"

  Magda Leonides stiffened. Her eyes ?

  opened reproachfully at Taverner.

  "I don't think," she said with dignity,

  "that you ought to ask me things like that.

  Brenda was quite friendly to everyone. She

  is really a very amiable sort of person."

  "Do you like Mr. Laurence Brown?"

  "He's very quiet. Quite nice, but you

  hardly know he's there. I haven't really

  seen very much of him." r

  "Is his teaching satisfactory?"

  "I suppose so. I really wouldn't know.

  Philip seems quite satisfied."

  Taverner essayed some shock tactics.

  "I'm sorry to ask you this, but in your

  opinion was there anything in the nature of

  a love affair between Mr. Brown and Mrs.

  Brenda Leonides."

  Magda got up. She was very much the

  grande dame.

  "I have never seen any evidence of

  anything of that kind," she said. "I don't

  think really. Inspector, that that is a question

  you ought to ask me. She was my

  father-in-law's wife."

  I almost applauded.

  The Chief Inspector also rose.

  "More a question for the servants?" he

  suggested.

  Magda did not answer.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Leonides," said the

  Inspector and went out.

  "You did that beautifully, darling," said

  Sophia to her mother warmly.

  Magda twisted up a curl reflectively

  behind her right ear and looked at herself

  in the glass.

  "Ye-es," she said, "I think it was the

  right way to play it."

  Sophia looked at me.

  "Oughtn't you," she asked, "to go with

  the Inspector?"

  "Look here, Sophia, what am I supposed

  --"

  I stopped. I could not very well ask

  outright in front of Sophia's mother exactly

  what my role was supposed to be. Magda

  Leonides had so far evinced no interest in

  my presence at all, except as a useful recipient

  of an exit line on daughters. I might

  be a reporter, her daughter's fiance, or an

  obscure hanger on of the police force, or

  even an undertaker -- to Magda Leonides

  they would one and all come under the

  general heading of audience.

  Looking down at her feet, Mrs. Leonides

  said with dissatisfaction:

  "These shoes are wrong. Frivolous."

  Obeying Sophia's imperious wave of the

  head I hurried after Taverner. I caught up

  with him in the outer hall just going through

  the door to the stairway.

  "Just going up to see the older brother,"

  he explained.

  I put my problem to him without more

  ado.

  "Look here, Taverner, who am I supposed

  to be?" r

  He looked surprised.

  "Who are you supposed to be?" ^

  "Yes, what am I doing here in this house?

  If anyone asks me, what do I say?"

  "Oh I see." He considered a moment.

  Then he smiled. "Has anybody asked you?"

  "Well -- no."

  "Then why not leave it at that. Never

  explain. That's a very good motto. Especially

  in a house upset like this house is.

  Everyone is far too full of their own private

  worries and fears to be in a questioning

  mood. They'll take you for granted so long

  as you just seem sure of yourself. It's a

  great mistake ever to say anything when

  you needn't. H'm, now we go through this

  door and up the stairs. Nothing locked. Of

  course you realise, I expect, that these

  questions I'm asking are all a lot of hooey 1 Doesn't matter a hoot who was in the house

  and who wasn't, or where they all were on

  that particular day --"

  "Then why --" He

  went on: "Because it at least gives

  me a chance to look at them all, and size

  them up,
and hear what they've got to say, and to hope that, quite by chance, somebody

  might give me a useful pointer." He was

  silent a moment and then murmured: "I

  bet Mrs. Magda Leonides could spill a

  mouthful if she chose."

  "Would it be reliable?" I asked.

  "Look here, Sophia, what am I supposed

  --"

  I stopped. I could not very well ask

  outright in front of Sophia's mother exactly

  what my role was supposed to be. Magda

  Leonides had so far evinced no interest in

  my presence at all, except as a useful recipient

  of an exit line on daughters. I might

  be a reporter, her daughter's fiance, or an

  obscure hanger on of the police force, or

  even an undertaker -- to Magda Leonides

  they would one and all come under the

  general heading of audience.

  Looking down at her feet, Mrs. Leonides

  said with dissatisfaction:

  "These shoes are wrong. Frivolous."

  Obeying Sophia's imperious wave of the

  head I hurried after Taverner. I caught up

  with him in the outer hall just going through

  the door to the stairway.

  "Just going up to see the older brother," he explained.

  I put my problem to him without more

  ado.

  "Look here, Taverner, who am I supposed

  to be?" t

  He looked surprised.

  "Who are you supposed to be?" ^

  "Yes, what am I doing here in this house?

  If anyone asks me, what do I say?"

  "Oh I see." He considered a moment.

  Then he smiled. "Has anybody asked you?"

  "Well -- no."

  "Then why not leave it at that. Never

  explain. That's a very good motto. Especially

  in a house upset like this house is.

  Everyone is far too full of their own private

  worries and fears to be in a questioning

  mood. They'll take you for granted so long

  as you just seem sure of yourself. It's a

  great mistake ever to say anything when

  you needn't. H'm, now we go through this

  door and up the stairs. Nothing locked. Of

  course you realise, I expect, that these

  questions I'm asking are all a lot of hooey i

  Doesn't matter a hoot who was in the house

  and who wasn't, or where they all were on

  that particular day --"

  "Then why--" 5 ^

  He went on: "Because it at least gives

  me a chance to look at them all, and size

  them up, and hear what they've got to say, and to hope that, quite by chance, somebody

  might give me a useful pointer." He was

  silent a moment and then murmured: "I

  bet Mrs. Magda Leonides could spill a

  mouthful if she chose."

  "Would it be reliable?" I asked.

  "Oh, no," said Taverner, "it wouldn't

  be reliable. But it might start a possible

  line of enquiry. Everybody in the damned

  house had means and opportunity. What I

  want is a motive."

  At the top of the stairs, a door barred off

  the right hand corridor. There was a brass

  knocker on it and Inspector Taverner duly

  knocked.

  It was opened with startling suddenness

  by a man who must have been standing just

  inside. He was a clumsy giant of a man

  with powerful shoulders, dark rumpled

  hair, and an exceedingly ugly but at the

  same time rather pleasant face. His eyes

  looked at us and then quickly away in that

  furtive embarrassed manner which shy but

  honest people often adopt.

  "Oh, I say," he said. "Come in. Yes, do.

  I was going -- but it doesn't matter. Come

  into the sitting room. I'll get Clemency --

  oh, you're there, darling. It's Chief Inspector

  Taverner. He -- are there any cigarettes?

  Just wait a minute. If you don't mind --"

  He collided with a screen, said "I beg your

  pardon" to it in a flustered manner, and

  went out of the room.

  It was rather like the exit of a bumble

  bee and left a noticeable silence behind it.

  Mrs. Roger Leonides was standing up by

  the window. I was intrigued at once by her

  personality and by the atmosphere of the

  room in which we stood.

  It was quite definitely her room. I was

  sure of that.

  The walls were painted white -- really

  white, not an ivory or a pale cream which

  is what one usually means when one says

  "white" in house decoration. They had no

  pictures on them except one over the

  mantelpiece, a geometrical fantasia in triangles

  of dark grey and battleship blue.

  There was hardly any furniture -- only

  mere utilitarian necessities, three or four

  chairs, a glass topped table, one small

  bookshelf. There were no ornaments. There

  was light and space and air. It was as

  different from the big brocaded and flowered

  drawing room on the floor below as chalk

  from cheese. And Mrs. Roger Leonides was

  as different from Mrs. Philip Leonides as

  one woman could be from another. Whilst

  one felt that Magda Leonides could be, and

  often was, at least half a dozen different

  women. Clemency Leonides, I was sure, could never be anyone but herself. She was

  a woman of very sharp and definite personality.

  She was about fifty, I suppose, her hair

  was grey, cut very short in what was almost

  an Eton crop but which grew so beautifully

  on her small well shaped head that it had

  none of the ugliness I have always associated

  with that particular cut. She had an intelligent, sensitive face, with light grey eyes of

  a peculiar and searching intensity. She had

  on a simple dark red woollen frock that

  fitted her slenderness perfectly.

  She was, I felt at once, rather an alarming

  woman ... I think because I judged that

  the standards by which she lived might

  not be those of an ordinary woman. I understood

  at once why Sophia had used the

  word ruthlessness in connection with her.

  The room was cold and I shivered a little.

  Clemency Leonides said in a quiet well

  bred voice:

  "Do sit down, Chief Inspector. Is there

  any further news?"

  "Death was due to eserine, Mrs. Leonides."

  t,She said thoughtfully: i

  "So that makes it murder. It couldn't

  have been an accident of any kind, could

  it?"

  "No, Mrs. Leonides."

  "Please be very gentle with my husband,

  Chief Inspector. This will affect him very

  much. He worshipped his father and he

  feels things very acutely. He is an emotional

  person."

  "You were on good terms with your fatherin-law,

  Mrs. Leonides?"

  "Yes, on quite good terms." She added

  quietly, "I did not like him very much."

  "Why was that?"

  "I disliked his objectives in life -- and

  his methods of attaining them."

  "And Mrs. Brenda Leonides?"

  "Brenda?
I never saw very much of her." """Do you think it is possible that there

  was anything between her and Mr. Laurence

  Brown?"

  "You mean -- some kind of a love affair?

  I shouldn't think so. But I really wouldn't

  know anything about it."

  Her voice sounded completely uninterested.

  Roger Leonides came back with a rush, and the same bumble bee effect.

  "I got held up," he said. "Telephone.

  Well, Inspector? Well? Have you got any

  news? What caused my father's death?"

  "Death was due to eserine poisoning."

  "It was? My God! Then it was that

  woman! She couldn't wait! He took her

  more or less out of the gutter and this is

  his reward. She murdered him in cold

  blood! God, it makes my blood boil to think

  of it."

  "Have you any particular reason for thinking

  that?" Taverner asked.

  Roger was pacing up and down, tugging

  at his hair with both hands.

  "Reason? Why, who else could it be?

  I've never trusted her -- never liked her!

  We've none of us liked her. Philip and I

  were both appalled when Dad came home

  one day and told us what he had done! At

  his age! It was madness -- madness. My

  father was an amazing man. Inspector. In

  intellect he was as young and fresh as a

  man of forty. Everything I have in the

  world I owe to him. He did everything for

  me -- never failed me. It was I who failed

  him -- when I think of it --"

  He dropped heavily onto a chair. His

  wife came quietly to his side.

  "Now, Roger, that's enough. Don't work

  yourself up."

  "I know, dearest -- I know," he took

  her hand. "But how can I keep calm --

  how can I help feeling --"

  "But we must all keep calm, Roger. Chief

  Insoector Taverner wants our help."

  K "That is right, Mrs. Leonides."

  Roger cried:

  "Do you know what I'd like to do? I'd

  like to strangle that woman with my own

  hands. Grudging that dear old man a few

  extra years of life. If I had her here ?" He

  sprang up. He was shaking with rage. He

  held out convulsive hands. "Yes, I'd wring

  her neck, wring her neck . . ."

  "Roger!" said Clemency sharply.

  He looked at her, abashed.

  "Sorry, dearest." He turned to us. "I do

  apologise. My feelings get the better of me.

  I ? excuse me ?"

  He went out of the room again. Clemency

  Leonides said with a very faint smile:

  "Really, you know, he wouldn't hurt a

  fly."

  Taverner accepted her remark politely.

  Then he started on his socalled routine

  questions.

  Clemency Leonides replied concisely and

  accurately.

  Roger Leonides had been in London on

  the day of his father's death at Box House,

  the headquarters of the Associated Catering.

  He had returned early in the afternoon and

  had spent some time with his father as was

  his custom. She herself had been, as usual

  at the Lambert Institute on Gower Street

  where she worked. She had returned to the

  house just before six o'clock.

  "Did you see your father-in-law?" "No. The last time I saw him was on the

  day before. We had coffee with him after

  dinner."

  "But you did not see him on the day of

  his death?"

  "No. I actually went over to his part of

  the house because Roger thought he had

  left his pipe there -- a very precious pipe 5

  but as it happened he had left it on the hall

  table there, so I did not need to disturb the

  old man. He often dozed off about six."

  "When did you hear of his illness?"

  "Brenda came rushing over. That was

  just a minute or two after half past six."

  These questions, as I knew, were unimportant,

  but I was aware how keen was

  Inspector Taverner's scrutiny of the woman

  who answered them. He asked her a few

  questions about the nature of her work in

  London. She said that it had to do with the

  radiation effects of atomic disintegration.

  "You work on the atom bomb, in fact?"

  "The work has nothing destructive about

  it. The Institute is carrying out experiments | on the therapeutic effects." .

  When Taverner got up, he expressed a

  wish to look around their part of the house.

  She seemed a little surprised 5 but showed

  him its extent readily enough. The bedroom

  with its twin beds and white coverlets and

  its simplified toilet appliances reminded me

  again of a hospital or some monastic cell.

  The bathroom, too, was severely plain with

  no special luxury fitting and no array of

  cosmetics. The kitchen was bare, spotlessly

  clean, and well equipped with labour saving

  devices of a practical kind. Then we came

  to a door which Clemency opened saying:

  "This is my husband's special room.55

  "Come in," said Roger. "Come in."

  I drew a faint breath of relief. Something

  in the spotless austerity elsewhere had been

  getting me down. This was an intensely

  personal room. There was a large roll top

  desk untidily covered with papers, old pipes

  and tobacco ash. There were big shabby

  easy chairs. Persian rugs covered the floor.

  On the walls were groups, their photography

  somewhat faded. School groups, cricket

  groups, military groups. Water colour

  sketches of deserts and minarets, and of

  sailing boats and sea effects and sunsets. It

  was, somehow, a pleasant room, the room

  of a lovable friendly companionable man.