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