‘Certainly.’
‘What about the valuation?’
Stephen removed his pipe from his mouth. ‘On the last three years’ trading. Doesn’t the plot thicken?’
‘I suppose you know what you mean by that! I can only say that I don’t!’ snapped Mottisfont.
‘I just think that things have panned out very luckily for you,’ smiled Stephen.
This remark provoked Mottisfont to such an explosion of wrath that not only Joseph, but Blyth too, intervened. While these three voices strove against each other, Stephen stood smoking his pipe, and grinning sardonically, and the Inspector divided his attention between his demeanour and those of Mottisfont’s agitated utterances which he was able to hear.
Again and again, and with tears in his voice, Joseph begged Mottisfont not to say what he must later regret; but the only effect this had on Mottisfont was to make him shout that he had had enough of Joseph’s meddling ways, and would not be surprised to find that he had been in league with Stephen from the start.
The obvious inference not only shocked Joseph, but gave him an opportunity of showing his audience that he could enact a tragic rôle just as well as the character-parts in which his wife said he was so good. Horror, grief, and righteous indignation all infused his voice as he refuted this accusation; and, as he turned away from Mottisfont, he almost tottered.
The Inspector, though not unappreciative of the spirited scene he was witnessing, thought it time to bring it to a close. He said that he did not think he need trouble the actors any more at present. Stephen at once strolled out of the room; and after delivering himself of a few trembling remarks about the entire Herriard family, Mottisfont also went away. The Inspector looked at Joseph, but Joseph showed no disposition to follow suit. He said, when the door had shut behind Mottisfont: ‘Nerves play strange tricks on us poor humans! I think you, Inspector, must have seen too much to attach importance to the foolish things a man will say under nervous stress. This has been a severe shock to my old friend Mottisfont. It has thrown him off his balance. You must believe that!’
‘I do,’ replied Hemingway.
‘I consider there was a good deal of provocation,’ said Blyth dryly.
‘Yes, yes, I know there was!’ Joseph agreed. ‘Stephen has a wicked tongue. I’m not excusing him. But I think I may claim to know him better than most people and I can’t let this pass without saying that that remark of his was not by any means unprovoked. Mottisfont’s attitude to him ever since my poor brother’s death has been little short of hostile.’
‘Do you know why?’ asked Hemingway.
Joseph shook his head. ‘There’s no reason, except that I’m afraid my nephew doesn’t lay himself out to be very agreeable. He wants knowing, if you understand what I mean. I can’t deny that he has – well, an unfortunate manner, very often, but it doesn’t mean anything. Then, too, I daresay Mottisfont was inclined to be jealous of him, the silly fellow!’
‘Would you say that he had an influence over your brother, sir?’
‘Well, hardly that, perhaps. But my brother was very fond of him. And Stephen cared a good deal for my brother too, whatever Mottisfont may choose to think. You know how it is, Inspector! My nephew is not the sort of man to show what he feels, and people are inclined to think him callous. Poor Mottisfont was terribly shocked by my brother’s death! Of course, Stephen was too, but he won’t show it, and that misled Mottisfont into thinking – well, I’m sure I don’t know what he thinks, but that unfortunate business of the cigarette-case made him say one or two things that were quite uncalled-for. But I think I put a stop to that. The old uncle has his uses!’
‘Mr Mottisfont thought the finding of that case in Mr Herriard’s room suspicious?’
‘Oh, I don’t know that he went as far as that! In any event, I feel sure the cigarette-case means nothing at all. There are probably a dozen explanations to account for its having been found in my brother’s room.’
‘Mr Herriard,’ said Hemingway, ‘did you at any time tell your nephew about the will you helped your brother to draw up?’
‘No, indeed I didn’t!’ Joseph said quickly. ‘Why, it would have been most improper of me! You mustn’t pay any heed to what poor Mottisfont said! That I’d been hinting that Stephen was the heir! Now, I do assure you, Inspector, that I never did anything of the kind. The only person I ever said anything to – and then only in the most general terms – was Miss Dean.’
‘What did you say to her, sir?’
‘Really, I can’t recall my exact words! It was nothing you could possibly construe into – in fact, I told her my lips were sealed. And I shouldn’t have said that, only that – oh dear, oh dear, one tries to act for the best, never imagining that the most innocent motives may lead to all sorts of hideous complications! You’ll think me a sentimental old fool, I expect, but my one idea was to smooth out a few wrinkles, if I could.’
‘Between Mr Stephen and the deceased?’
‘Well, yes,’ admitted Joseph. ‘It’s no use trying to conceal from you that my poor brother was in a very bad humour, for I’m sure you’ve already been told that. His lumbago was troubling him, and there was this business of Mottisfont’s, besides the rather unfortunate affair of young Roydon’s play. I did my best to pour oil, and I will readily admit that I was on tenterhooks lest Stephen should upset all his chances by – by irritating his uncle. That’s why I spoke to Miss Dean.’
‘So that unless Miss Dean told him, you don’t think he had any knowledge of his uncle’s having made this will?’
‘Not from me! I don’t know what my brother may have told him, but I can assure you I never said anything about it.’
The Inspector’s excellent memory again proved disconcerting. ‘But when Mr Herriard and his nephew had words after the reading of Mr Roydon’s play, didn’t Mr Herriard speak of making a few changes?’
‘Really, I don’t think I heard him! In any case, it was the sort of thing he might say if he was in a temper.’
‘But it would imply, wouldn’t it, that he had reason to believe that Mr Stephen knew of the provisions of this will?’
‘I suppose it would,’ agreed Joseph unhappily. ‘But you can’t mean to suggest that Stephen – Oh no, no! I won’t believe such a horrible thing!’
‘I’m not suggesting anything, sir; I’m only trying to get at the truth.’
Joseph wrung his hands in one of his agitated gestures. ‘Ah, you think me a foolish old fellow, but I can’t but see what you suspect! I know that things do look black against my nephew, but I for one am convinced that the murder wasn’t committed by anyone under this roof !’
‘How’s that, sir? What reason have you to think that?’ asked the Inspector quickly.
‘Sometimes,’ answered Joseph, ‘intuition proves to be sounder than reason, Inspector!’
‘I’ll have to take your word for that, sir,’ replied the disillusioned Inspector. ‘I haven’t found it so myself. Of course, that’s not to say I won’t.’
‘Try to keep an open mind!’ Joseph begged.
‘I’m paid to do that, sir,’ said Hemingway, somewhat acidly. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll finish what I have to do here with Mr Blyth.’
This was too pointed to be ignored. Joseph went away, his seraphic brow creased with worry. Blyth said, with a slight smile: ‘He means well, Inspector.’
‘Yes, that’s a vice that makes more trouble than any other,’ said Hemingway. ‘If you ask me, there very likely wouldn’t have been a murder at all if it hadn’t been for him getting ideas about peace and goodwill, and assembling all these highly uncongenial people under the same roof at the same time.’
‘I fear you are a cynic, Inspector.’
‘You get to be in my profession,’ replied Hemingway.
The inspection of the rest of Nathaniel’s papers did not take long, nor was anything of further interest discovered amongst them. The solicitor was soon at liberty to join the rest of the house-party in th
e library; and Hemingway went off in search of his Sergeant.
Ware met him in the hall, and looked a question.
‘Nothing much,’ Hemingway said. ‘Young Stephen’s the heir all right. You have any success?’
‘Well, I can’t say I have,’ Ware replied. ‘Can’t get much out of the servants – much sense, I mean. But one thing struck me as a bit funny. I was having a look round, and went into the billiard-room, and I found an old lady there. Mrs Joseph Herriard, I believe.’
‘I don’t see anything funny about that.’
‘No, sir, but she was fair turning the room upside-down, looking for something. I watched her for quite a minute before she saw me. One end of the room’s fitted out like a small lounge, and she was looking under all the cushions, and running her hands down the sides of the chairs, as though she thought something might have slipped down between the upholstery. She gave a bit of a start when she saw me, but of course that’s nothing in itself.’
‘Hunting for something, was she? Well, that might be interesting.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought, but when I asked her if she’d lost something I’m bound to say she didn’t seem at all discomposed, as you might say. She said she’d lost her book.’
‘Well, I daresay she had, but I’d like to meet her,’ said Hemingway.
‘She’s still there, sir.’
When Joseph had begun to dismantle the Christmas tree, he had had a small wooden tub brought into the billiardroom. It was half-full of tinsel decorations and crackers, and when the Sergeant showed Hemingway into the room, Maud was engaged in turning these over in her search for the Life of the Empress of Austria. She acknowledged the Inspector’s arrival with a nod and a small smile. She seemed to think that the Sergeant had fetched him to assist her, for she thanked him for coming, and said that it was extraordinary how things could get mislaid.
‘A book, is it, madam?’ asked Hemingway.
‘Yes, and it is a library book, so it must be found,’ said Maud. ‘Of course, I expect it will turn up, because things very often do, and in the most unexpected places.’
‘Such as in a tub full of Christmas decorations?’ suggested Hemingway, with a quizzical look.
‘You never know,’ said Maud vaguely. ‘I once mislaid a shoehorn for three days, and it was eventually found in a coal-scuttle, though how it came there I never could discover. I daresay you will be searching the house yourself, and if you should happen to come upon my book I should be very grateful if you would tell me. It is called the Life of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria. A most interesting character: really, I had no idea! It is most annoying that I should have lost it, because I hadn’t finished it. She must have been very lovely, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her husband. He seems to have been a handsome man when he was young, but of course he grew those whiskers in later life. And then so fat! Not that I think that excused her altogether. No, the book isn’t here. So tiresome!’
She smiled, and nodded again, and went out of the room, returning, however, in a few moments to tell the Inspector not to make a special point of looking for the book, as she knew he had other things to think about.
The astonished Sergeant exchanged a glance with his superior, but Hemingway assured Maud that he would keep his eyes open.
‘Well!’ ejaculated the Sergeant, when Maud had gone away again. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘I’d say she was looking for her book.’
The Sergeant was disappointed. ‘It struck me she might be looking for the weapon that killed the old man. Seemed fishy to me.’
‘She wouldn’t have had to look far,’ said the Inspector. ‘Not if it’s in this room. What’s wrong with your eyesight, my lad?’
The Sergeant blinked, and gazed about him. Hemingway pointed a finger at the wall above the fireplace. Flanking the head of an antlered deer were two old flint-lock pistols, a pair of knives in ornate sheaths, and various other weapons, ranging from a Zulu knobkerrie to a seventeenthcentury halberd.
‘Just about as much gumption as the locals, that’s what you’ve got!’ said Hemingway scornfully. ‘Get up on a chair, and take a look at those two daggers! And don’t go fingering them!’
Swallowing this insult, the Sergeant pulled a chair forward, and said that it was funny how you could miss a thing that was right under your nose.
‘I don’t know what you mean by “you”!’ retorted Hemingway. ‘I know what I’d mean by it, but that’s different. And funny isn’t the word I’d use, either. Any dust on those daggers?’
The Sergeant, standing on the chair, reached up, leaning a hand against the wall to steady himself. ‘No. At least, yes: on the undersides,’ he said, peering at them.
‘Both free from dust on the outside?’
‘Pretty well. So’s this pike-affair. Careful servants in this house. I expect they do ‘em with one of those feather dusters on the end of a long stick.’
‘Never mind what they do them with! Hand those daggers down to me!’
The Sergeant obeyed, using his handkerchief. Hemingway took them, and closely scrutinised them. It was plain that the sheaths at least had not been taken down recently, since dust clung to the undersides, and a few wispy cobwebs on the wall were revealed by their removal. Indeed, the Sergeant, descending from his perch, and studying the knives, gave it as his opinion that neither had been handled.
‘Take another look,’ advised Hemingway. ‘Notice anything about the hilts?’
The Sergeant glanced quickly at him, and then once more bent over the weapons. As Hemingway held them up the dust on them was clearly visible. Each sheath, where it had lain against the wall, was thinly coated with dust, and so was one hilt. The other hilt had no speck of dust on it, on either side.
The Sergeant drew in his breath. ‘My lord, Chief, you’re quick!’ he said respectfully.
‘You can put this one back,’ said Hemingway, unmoved by the compliment, and handing him the knife with the dusty hilt. ‘It hasn’t been touched. But this little fellow has been drawn out of its sheath very recently, or I’m a Dutchman!’ He held it up to the light, closely inspecting the hilt for finger-prints. No smudge on its polished surface was visible to the naked eye, and he added disgustedly: ‘What’s more, when the experts get on to it, they’ll find that it’s been carefully wiped. However, we won’t take any chances. Lend me that handkerchief of yours, will you?’
The Sergeant gave it to him. Carefully grasping the base of the hilt between his finger and thumb through the folds of the linen, Hemingway drew the knife from the sheath. It slid easily, a thin blade which revealed a slight stain close to the hilt. The Sergeant pointed a finger at this, and Hemingway nodded. ‘Overlooked that, didn’t he? Well, I fancy we have here the weapon that killed Nathaniel Herriard.’ Perceiving a look of elation on his subordinate’s face, he added dampingly: ‘Not that it’s likely to help us, but it’s nice to know.’
‘I don’t see why it shouldn’t help us,’ objected Ware. ‘It proves the murder was an inside job, anyway.’
‘Well, if that’s your idea of help, it isn’t mine,’ said Hemingway. ‘Of course it was an inside job! And a nice, highclass bit of work too! There won’t be any finger-prints on this. You have to hand it to our unknown friend. Thinks of everything. He chooses a weapon which nine people out of ten would stare at every day of their lives without attaching any importance to. He chooses a time when the house is full of visitors who all have their reasons for wanting old Herriard out of the way; and seizes the moment when everyone’s dressing for dinner to stab his host, and restore the knife at his leisure. It’s an education to have to do with this bird.’
The Sergeant gazed meditatively up at the wall over the fireplace. ‘Yes, and what’s more, he might have taken the knife at any time,’ he said. ‘There’s no sign he took the sheath as well.’
‘There’s every sign he didn’t.’
‘That’s what I mean. I daresay no one would have noticed if that knife had been taken o
ut of the sheath quite a while before the murder was committed. It isn’t even as if it was on a line with your eyes: you have to look up to catch sight of it.’
‘What’s more important,’ said Hemingway, ‘is that it could have been put back at any time. After everyone had gone to bed, as like as not. So now perhaps you begin to see that the chances are that this nasty-looking dagger is going to rank as a matter of purely academic interest.’
Twelve
THE INSPECTOR HAD BARELY PACKED THE KNIFE AND ITS
sheath away into a case when Sturry entered the room, and stood upon the threshold with an expression of lofty resignation on his face. Hemingway, no respecter of persons, said: ‘Well, what do you want?’
Sturry gave him a quelling look, and replied with meticulous politeness: ‘Mr Joseph, Inspector, desired me to enquire whether you, and the Other Policeman, will be requiring luncheon. If this should be the case, a Cold Collation will be served in the morning-room.’
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