Read Crooked House Page 7

different. He was Irish -- and he was going

  overseas. . . . He never wrote or anything

  I suppose I was a fool. So there it was,

  you see. I was in trouble -- just like some

  dreadful little servant girl. . . ."

  Her voice was disdainful in its snobbery.

  "Aristide was wonderful. He said everything

  would be all right. He said he was

  lonely. We'd be married at once, he said.

  It was like a dream. And then I found out

  he was the great Mr. Leonides. He owned

  masses of shops and restaurants and night

  clubs. It was quite like a fairy tale, wasn't

  it?"

  "One kind of a fairy tale," I said drily.

  "We were married at a little church in

  the City -- and then we went abroad."

  "And the child?"

  She looked at me with eyes that came

  back from a long distance.

  "There wasn't a child after all. It was all

  a mistake." ; ^

  She smiled, the curled up sideways

  crooked smile.

  "I vowed to myself that I'd be a really

  good wife to him, and I was. I ordered all

  the kinds of food he liked, and wore the

  colours he fancied and I did all I could to

  please him. And he was happy. But we

  never got rid of that family of his. Always

  coming and sponging and living in his

  pocket. Old Miss de Haviland -- I think

  T

  she ought to have gone away when he got

  married. I said so. But Aristide said, 'She's

  been here so long. It's her home now.' The

  truth is he liked to have them all about and

  underfoot. They were beastly to me, but he

  never seemed to notice that or to mind

  about it. Roger hates me -- have you seen

  Roger? He's always hated me. He's jealous.

  | And Philip's so stuck up he never speaks

  to me. And now they're trying to pretend

  I murdered him -- and I didn't -- I

  didn't!" She leaned towards me. "Please

  believe I didn't?"

  I found her very pathetic. The contemptuous

  way the Leonides family had spoken

  of her, their eagerness to believe that she

  had committed the crime -- now, at this

  moment, it all seemed positively inhuman

  conduct. She was alone, defenceless, hunted

  down.

  "And if it's not me, they think it's

  Laurence," she went on.

  | "What about Laurence?" I asked.

  "I'm terribly sorry for Laurence. He's delicate and he couldn't go and fight. It's

  not because he was a coward. It's because ^ he's sensitive. I've tried to cheer him up

  | and to make him feel happy. He has to

  ^^_each those horrible children. Eustace is

  1

  always sneering at him, and Josephine ?

  well, you've seen Josephine. You know

  what she's like."

  I said I hadn't met Josephine yet.

  "Sometimes I think that child isn't right

  in her head. She has horrible sneaky ways,

  and she looks queer . . . She gives me the

  shivers sometimes."

  I didn't want to talk about Josephine. I

  harked back to Laurence Brown.

  "Who is he?" I asked. "Where does he

  come from?"

  I had phrased it clumsily. She flushed.

  "He isn't anybody particular. He's just

  like me . . . What chance have we got

  against all of them?"

  "Don't you think you're being a little ?

  hysterical?"

  "No, I don't. They want to make out

  that Laurence did it ? or that I did.

  They've got that policeman on their side.

  What chance have I got?"

  "You mustn't work yourself up," I said.

  "Why shouldn't it be one of them who

  killed him? Or someone from outside? Or

  one of the servants?"

  "There's a certain lack of motive."

  "Oh! motive. What motive had I got? Or

  Laurence?"

  I felt rather uncomfortable as I said:

  "They might think, I suppose, that you

  and ? er ? Laurence ? are in love with

  each other ? that you wanted to marry."

  She sat bolt upright.

  "That's a wicked thing to suggest! And

  it's not true! We've never said a word of

  that kind to each other. I've just been sorry

  for him and tried to cheer him up. We've

  been friends, that's all. You do believe me,

  don't you?"

  I did believe her. That is, I believed that

  she and Laurence were, as she put it, only

  friendsi? But I also believed that, possibly

  unknown to herself, she was actually in

  love with the young man.

  It was with that thought in my mind that

  I went downstairs in search of Sophia.

  As I was about to go into the drawing

  room, Sophia poked her head out of a door

  further along the passage.

  "Hullo," she said, "I'm helping Nannie

  with lunch."

  I would have joined her, but she came

  out into the passage, shut the door behind

  her, and taking my arm led me into the

  drawing room which was empty, i

  "Well," she said, "did you see Brenda?

  What did you think of her?"

  "Frankly," I said, "I was sorry for

  her."

  Sophia looked amused.

  "I see," she said. "So she got you."

  I felt slightly irritated.

  "The point is," I said, "that I can see

  her side of it. Apparently you can't."

  "Her side of what?"

  "Honestly, Sophia, have any of the family

  ever been nice to her, or even fairly decent

  to her, since she came here?"

  "No, we haven't been nice to her. Why

  should we be?" ;

  "Just ordinary Christian kindliness, if

  nothing else." - ft

  "What a very high moral tone you're

  taking, Charles. Brenda must have done her stuff pretty well."

  "Really, Sophia, you seem -- I don't

  know what's come over you."

  "I'm just being honest and not pretending.

  You've seen Brenda's side of it, so you

  say. Now take a look at my side. I don't |

  like the type of young woman who makes

  up a hard luck story and marries a very

  rich old man on the strength of it. I've a

  perfect right not to like that type of young

  woman, and there is no earthly reason why

  T should oretend I do. And if the facts were

  written down in cold blood on paper, you

  wouldn't like that young woman either."

  "Was it a made up story?" I asked.

  "About the child? I don't know. Personally, I think so."

  "And you resent the fact that your grandfather

  was taken in by it?"

  "Oh, grandfather wasn't taken in." Sophia

  laughed. "Grandfather was never taken

  in by anybody. He wanted Brenda. He

  wanted to play Cophetua to her beggarmaid.

  He knew just what he was doing and it

  worked out beautifully according to plan.

  From grandfather's point of view the marriage

  was a complete success -- like all his

  other operations." ^ h

&n
bsp; "Was engaging Laurence Brown as tutor

  another of your grandfather's successes?" I

  asked ironically.

  Sophia frowned.

  "Do you know, I'm not sure that it

  wasn't. He wanted to keep Brenda happy

  and amused. He may have thought that

  jewels and clothes weren't enough. He may

  have thought she wanted a mild romance

  in her life. He may have calculated that

  someone like Laurence Brown, somebody

  really tame, if you know what I mean,

  Would just do the trick. A beautiful soulful

  friendship tinged with melancholy that

  would stop Brenda from having a real affair

  with someone outside. I wouldn't put it

  past grandfather to have worked out something

  on those lines. He was rather an old

  devil, you know."

  "He must have been," I said.

  "He couldn't, of course, have visualised

  that it would lead to murder. . . . And

  that," said Sophia, speaking with sudden

  vehemence, "is really why I don't, much

  as I would like to, really believe that she

  did it. If she'd planned to murder him --

  or if she and Laurence had planned it

  together -- grandfather would have known

  about it. I daresay that seems a bit farfetched

  to you --"

  "I must confess it does," I said.

  "But then you didn't know grandfather.

  He certainly wouldn't have connived at his

  own murder! So there you are! Up against

  a blank wall."

  "She's frightened, Sophia," I said. "She's

  very frightened."

  "Chief Inspector Taverner and his merry

  merry men? Yes, I daresay they are rather

  alarming. Laurence, I suppose, is in hysterics?"

  "Practically. He made, I thought, a dis-

  gusting exhibition of himself. I don't understand

  what a woman can see in a man like

  that."

  "Don't you, Charles? Actually Laurence

  has a lot of sex appeal."

  "A weakling like that," I said incredulously.

  "Why do men always think that a caveman

  must necessarily be the only type of person

  attractive to the opposite sex? Laurence has

  got sex appeal all right -- but I wouldn't

  expect you to be aware of it." She looked

  at me. "Brenda got her hooks into you all

  right."

  "Don't be absurd. She's not even really

  good looking. And she certainly didn't --"

  "Display allure? No, she just made you

  sorry for her. She's not actually beautiful, she's not in the least clever -- but she's got

  one very outstanding characteristic. She can

  make trouble. She's made trouble, already, between you and me."

  "Sophia," I cried aghast.

  Sophia went to the door.

  "Forget it, Charles. I must get on with

  lunch."

  "I'll come and help."

  "No, you stay here. It will rattle Nannie

  to have 'a gentleman in the kitchen'."

  "Sophia," I called as she went out.

  "Yes, what is it?"

  "Just a servant problem. Why haven't

  you got any servants down here and upstairs

  something in an apron and a cap opened

  the door to us?"

  "Grandfather had a cook, housemaid,

  parlourmaid and valet-attendant. He liked

  servants. He paid them the earth, of course,

  and he got them. Clemency and Roger just

  have a daily woman who comes in and

  cleans. They don't like servants ? or rather

  Clemency doesn't. If Roger didn't get a

  square meal in the City every day, he'd

  starve. Clemency's idea of a meal is lettuce,

  tomatoes and raw carrot. We sometimes

  have servants, and then mother throws one

  of her temperaments and they leave, and

  we have dailies for a bit and then start

  again. We're in the daily period. Nannie is

  the permanency and copes in emergencies.

  Now you know." t

  Sophia went out. I sank down in one of

  the large brocaded chairs and gave myself

  up to speculation.

  Upstairs I had seen Brenda's side of it.

  Here and now I had been shown Sophia's

  side of it. I realised completely the justice

  of Sophia's point of view ? what might

  be called the Leonides family's point of

  view. They resented a stranger within the

  gates who had obtained admission by what

  they regarded as ignoble means. They were

  entirely within their rights. As Sophia had

  said: On paper it wouldn't look well . . .

  But there was the human side of it --

  the side that I saw and that they didn't.

  They were, they always had been, rich and

  well established. They had no conception

  of the temptations of the underdog. Brenda

  Leonides had wanted wealth, and pretty

  things and safety -- and a home. She had

  claimed that in exchange she had made her

  old husband happy. I had sympathy with

  her. Certainly, while I was talking with her,

  I had had sympathy for her. . . . Had I

  got as much sympathy now?

  Two sides to the question -- different

  angles of vision -- which was the true angle

  . . the true angle . . .

  I had slept very little the night before. I

  had been up early to accompany Taverner.

  Now, in the warm flower-scented atmosphere

  of Magda Leonides's drawing room, my body relaxed in the cushioned embrace of the big chair and my eyelids dropped. . . .

  Thinking of Brenda, of Sophia, of an old

  man's picture, my thoughts slid together

  into a pleasant haze.

  I slept. . . .

  Ten

  I returned to consciousness so gradually

  that I didn't at first realise that I had been

  asleep. The scent of flowers was in my

  nose. In front of me a round white blob

  appeared to float in space. It was some few

  seconds before I realised that it was a

  human face I was looking at ? a face

  suspended in the air about a foot or two

  away from me. As my faculties returned,

  my vision became more precise. The face

  still had its goblin suggestion ? it was

  round with a bulging brow, combed back

  hair and small rather beady, black eyes.

  But it was definitely attached to a body ?

  a small skinny body. It was regarding me

  very earnestly.

  "Hullo," it said.

  "Hullo," I replied, blinking.

  "I'm Josephine."

  I had already deduced that. Sophia's

  sister, Josephine, was, I judged, about

  eleven or twelve years of age. She was a

  fantastically ugly child with a very distinct

  likeness to her grandfather. It seemed to

  me possible that she also had his brains.

  "You're Sophia's young man," said Josephine.

  I

  acknowledged the correctness of this

  remark.

  "But you came down here with Chief

  Inspector Taverner. Why did you come

  with Chief Inspector Taverner?"

  "He's a friend of mine." ^

/>   "Is he? I don't like him. I shan't tell him

  things." "What

  sort of things?"

  "The things that I know. I know a lot of

  things. I like knowing things."

  She sat down on the arm of the chair and

  continued her searching scrutiny of my

  face. I began to feel quite uncomfortable.

  "Grandfather's been murdered. Did you

  know?"

  "Yes," I said. "I knew." " "He was poisoned. With es-er-ine." She

  pronounced the word very carefully. "It's

  interesting, isn't it?"

  "I suppose it is."

  "Eustace and I are very interested. We

  like detective stories. I've always wanted to

  ' ? It

  be a detective. I'm being one now. I'm

  collecting clues."

  She was, I felt, rather a ghoulish child.

  She returned to the charge.

  "The man who came with Chief Inspector

  Taverner is a detective too, isn't he? In

  books it says you can always know plain

  clothes detectives by their boots. But this

  I detective was wearing suede shoes."

  "The old order changeth," I said.

  Josephine interpreted this remark according

  to her own ideas.

  "Yes," she said, "there will be a lot of

  changes here now, I expect. We shall go

  and live in a house in London on the

  embankment. Mother has wanted to for a

  long time. She'll be very pleased. I don't

  expect father will mind if his books go, too.

  He couldn't afford it before. He lost an

  awful lot of money over Jezebel."

  "Jezebel?" I queried.

  "Yes, didn't you see it?" ? "Oh, was it a play? No, I didn't. I've

  been abroad."

  | "It didn't run very long. Actually, it was

  the most awful flop. I don't think mother's

  really the type to play Jezebel, do you?"

  LI balanced my impressions of Magda.

  Neither in the peach-coloured negligee nor

  in the tailored suit had she conveyed any

  suggestion of Jezebel, but I was willing to

  believe that there were other Magdas that I

  had not yet seen.

  "Perhaps not," I said cautiously.

  "Grandfather always said it would be a

  flop. He said he wouldn't put up any money

  for one of these historical religious plays.

  He said it would never be a box office

  success. But mother was frightfully keen. I

  didn't like it much myself. It wasn't really

  a bit like the story in the Bible. I mean,

  Jezebel wasn't wicked like she is in the

  Bible. She was all patriotic and really quite

  nice. That made it dull. Still, the end was

  all right. They threw her out of the window.

  Only no dogs came and ate her. I think

  that was a pity, don't you? I like the part

  about the dogs eating her best. Mother says

  you can't have dogs on the stage but I don't

  see why. You could have performing dogs."

  She quoted with gusto: " 'And they ate her

  all but the palms of her hands.' Why didn't

  they eat the palms of her hands?"

  "I've really no idea," I said.

  "You wouldn't think, would you, that

  dogs were so particular. Our dogs aren't.

  They eat simply anything."

  T^^km^ hrnnded on this Biblical mys-

  tery for some seconds.

  "I'm sorry the play was a fl(p,

  "Yes. Mother was terribly b|

  notices were simply frightful!

  read them, she burst into teas

  all day and she threw her brei'

  Gladys, and Gladys gave noif

  rather fun."

  "I perceive that you like

  phine," I said.

  "They did a post morteml

  father," said Josephine. "To H;

  he had died of. A P.M., they all11

  think that's rather confusing, dd;^

  cause P.M. stands for Prime S^

  And for afternoon," she addt^p!

  fully. J

  "Are you sorry your grandfatia, I

  I asked. |

  "Not particularly. I didn't lifcl^l

  He stopped me learning to It i

  dancer." ']

  "Did you want to learn ball(t( [

  "Yes, and mother was willmi

  learn, and father didn't mindly

  father said I'd be no good." |

  She slipped off the arm c^l

  kicked off her shoes and en^j

  get onto what are called ^

  in the tailored suit had she conveyed any

  suggestion of Jezebel, but I was willing to

  believe that there were other Magdas that I

  had not yet seen.

  "Perhaps not," I said cautiously.

  "Grandfather always said it would be a |

  flop. He said he wouldn't put up any money

  for one of these historical religious plays.

  He said it would never be a box office

  success. But mother was frightfully keen. I

  didn't like it much myself. It wasn't really

  a bit like the story in the Bible. I mean,

  Jezebel wasn't wicked like she is in the

  Bible. She was all patriotic and really quite

  nice. That made it dull. Still, the end was

  all right. They threw her out of the window.

  Only no dogs came and ate her. I think |

  that was a pity, don't you? I like the part

  about the dogs eating her best. Mother says

  you can't have dogs on the stage but I don't

  see why. You could have performing dogs."

  She quoted with gusto: " 'And they ate her

  all but the palms of her hands.' Why didn't

  they eat the palms of her hands?"

  "I've really no idea," I said.

  "You wouldn't think, would you, that

  dogs were so particular. Our dogs aren't.

  They eat simply anything."

  T^o^kin^ Krnnrled on this Biblical mys- ^

  tery for some seconds.

  "I'm sorry the play was a flop," I said.

  "Yes. Mother was terribly upset. The