Mrs. Bradley left him to his mixed bag of memories and returned to his cousin Lewis, brother to the poet Richmond.
“I believe you are an architect,” she said. Lewis, with his pleasant smile, admitted it.
“Council houses and flats, and county police stations, mostly,” he added.
“You like your profession?”
Lewis looked surprised.
“Why else should I follow it?” he asked. “If I wanted to write poetry I should write it. I don’t. I prefer to do my thinking in terms of stresses and strains, space, light, the fusion of materials, and design.”
“A poet in bricks and mortar,” said Mrs. Bradley.
“In ferro-concrete and breeze,” retorted Lewis.
“Did your brother kill your Uncle Aumbry?”
“I tell you he couldn’t kill anything except a misplaced accent in sprung rhythm.”
“When did you last see the Isaurian diptych?”
“The what diptych?”
“The Isaurian diptych. It was probably your uncle’s most precious and valuable possession. He is thought to have stolen it from the late Professor Havers.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me, but I’ve never been shown any of Uncle Aumbry’s stuff since I was twelve. I said thought he was a receiver. I didn’t know he’d ever turned his hand to the actual job of acquiring by stealing, but I’d never put it past him. He was a completely villainous old man.”
“What did you make of his new will, the one in favour of your brother?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not at all sure what I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old man meant it to stand. He was such an old devil that I can quite imagine him double-crossing the obliging and obsequious Godfrey just for the fun of it, you know.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Aumbry,” said Mrs. Bradley with real gratitude. “I’m not at all sure that yours is not the most helpful statement I’ve listened to yet, unless I except that proffered by your cousin Frederick.”
“Frederick? He’s a bit of a heel, you know.”
“Yes, yes, the Achilles tendon is sometimes…”
“At the root of all evil? Yes, I expect you’re right. Frederick’s Achilles tendon is money, and always has been.”
“So much is clear to me, not least of all from Mr. Frederick himself. But I was about to observe that the Achilles tendon is sometimes the key to a man’s conduct. You say that your cousin Frederick is a heel, but have you never heard of showing a clean pair of heels?”
Lewis looked at her doubtfully for a moment; then his face cleared and his gentle smile irradiated it.
“Good old Frederick,” he said. “Somewhere, you mean that, ass as he is, he’s cleared Rickie?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Mrs. Bradley, “but I would say that he shows an innocent, confiding nature.”
“So do his bookies,” said Lewis. “I can’t see why the devil they still allow him credit. But what did he say to help my brother?”
“He confirmed my own suspicions, that is all, and does not know he did.”
CHAPTER TEN
Merlin’s Choice
“…but yet I learned perfectly that it is no marvel at all though men in a wind lose their length in shooting, seeing so many ways the wind is so variable in blowing.”
—Roger Ascham, Toxophilus
With such knowledge as she felt she had gained from her interviews with old Mr. Aumbry’s nephews, Mrs. Bradley returned to the Chief Constable, whom she found in the courtyard.
“Yes, the inspector has traced the three servants,” he said, when she had reported her conversations. “They’re scared stiff, of course, but they’ve got watertight alibis for the time of the death. It seems that whenever any dubious transaction was on hand, the old man used to send them out on the spree so that he was alone in the house to finish his business. They’ve been positively identified as being elsewhere on the night of his death, because the Kanaka got so drunk that he was locked up, and the two Chinks were pinched in Southampton for peddling dope. We can absolutely wash them out. As for Havers, there’s no evidence they’d ever heard of him.”
“Where is the Kanaka now?”
“Still in quod. You see, he assaulted the policeman who was assisting him towards the police station. The magistrates took a grave view and handed him a month.”
“These three men appear to have behaved with great commonsense, both from their point of view and our own.”
“Well, yes, it does help,” the Chief Constable admitted. “The odds, then, are still on Richmond Aumbry.”
“No one but you seems to think so. Even Godfrey, who might be excused for feeling sore about the will, is positively certain that Richmond is incapable of murder. Besides, it seems to me that we’ve another suspect now.”
“Oh? Who?”
“The unknown person on whose behalf the three servants were granted leave of absence.”
“Yes, but we’ve no proof that such a person ever came to Merlin’s Furlong that day. We made enquiries, naturally, as soon as we learned that the servants could produce these alibis, but nobody in the village noticed any stranger passing through, and strangers, especially strangers in cars, would be pretty obvious in Merlin’s Ell, one would have thought.”
“Suppose the stranger had come by night and was already in the house when the servants were sent out of it?”
“Suppose what you like; there’s nothing to prove it.”
“In other words…”
“In other words…stymie,” said the Chief Constable.
“I’m not so sure,” Mrs. Bradley replied. “The first question we have to answer, it seems to me, is why the lawyer Godfrey was hit on the head, and by whom, and I have told you what Frederick Aumbry told me about that. And Frederick struck me, on the whole, as, at least, an impartial witness.”
“There’s one thing,” said the Chief Constable, “from all the evidence we have at present, it still seems that Godfrey Aumbry had every reason to desire to have his uncle alive. It seems certain that the old man intended to make him his heir.”
“Against that, surely, is the extremely shrewd remark by Frederick that old Mr. Aumbry may, after all, have been the person who hit Mr. Godfrey on the head. Then, Lewis half-thinks the inheritance was for Richmond and Aumbry was playing cat and mouse with Godfrey. It is interesting, too, to note that none other of the nephews seems to have had that idea. They are certain that the will drafted in Richmond’s favour would not be allowed to stand.”
“Yet it does stand, which brings us back to Richmond. But you still don’t believe that Richmond killed his uncle.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Irrational, isn’t it?”
“Entirely, from your point of view.”
“Feminine intuition?”
“There is no such thing. Women are poor debaters (with notable exceptions, of course) and often find it impossible to make their reactions the subject of a logical argument; but, none the less, they have always ‘something to go on,’ as the saying is. Their perceptive powers are often livelier than those of men, who are apt to be ponderous and slow-witted on the question of human relations, and therefore women arrive at the truth with what is, to men, unfair leaps in the dark over logical fences and obstacles. I don’t believe Richmond Aumbry is a murderer because, although he might kill in a fury, he would not kill for gain.”
“How can you be sure of that, though?”
Mrs. Bradley grimaced.
“If he would kill for the sake of his wife and children he would have done it for their sakes before now, I should imagine,” she said drily. “And that brings me to one of the logical fences over which I may have seemed to you to have leapt. Richmond is a poet. All his natural pugnacity and violence have gone into the forging of his poems. He might, as Shelley did, write of such horrors as the story of the Cenci, but it would never occur to him to translate those horrors into reality. His dislike of his uncle, his deep affection f
or his brother Lewis, his contempt for Frederick the saloon-bar man, and for Godfrey the stick-in-the-mud, could all be sublimated, as could any bitterness he might feel at living on his wife’s earnings and being unable to give his sons the education for which he feels they are probably fitted. No, no. Richmond Aumbry is not our man.”
“Well, it couldn’t be Godfrey, anyway.”
“Are you sure of that? Personally I have an open mind, and I doubt very much whether it was Frederick, for Frederick is an uncouth, natural man, and if he had killed his uncle he would have blazed such a trail that by now you would have had him in custody.”
“That leaves us Lewis. He is fond of his brother. Might have seen a chance of putting him on velvet, and decided to take it, you know.”
“Why? He believes his brother to be a happy man.”
“Yes, but Richmond would probably be a lot happier if he had his uncle’s thousands at his back.”
“There are no degrees in happiness,” Mrs. Bradley pointed out. “Either one is happy or one is not.”
“You don’t think a happy man would be happier if he had a fortune?”
“If he would be happier with a fortune he could not have been happy without one.”
“You don’t think Lewis killed his uncle, then?”
“I think it extremely doubtful.”
“Well, I’m going to have another look at Mr. Aumbry’s will. Others slightly stood to benefit besides Richmond, and there may be one to whom even a small amount of money would have come in very useful. After all, a hundred pounds can save many an awkward situation. Suppose Frederick, for example, had been stuck with a gambling debt, or had backed someone’s bill, or had had to buy off a woman…”
“What an imagination you have!” said Mrs. Bradley admiringly.
“Well, in those sort of circumstances, can you see Frederick Aumbry as a murderer?”
“With the naked eye.”
“The first encouraging word you’ve spoken since this conversation began.”
“We have no evidence that Frederick Aumbry had any of these difficulties. And there’s another thing…”
“We’ll soon find out whether he had. In fact, every one of these nephews, even Godfrey…”
“The motiveless Godfrey…”
“…will have to explain exactly where he was and what he was doing at the time of his uncle’s death.”
“I thought they had all been questioned already by the police about that.”
“Well, they have, but there’s nothing like a certain amount of repetition for getting at the truth.”
“So Torquemada believed,” said Mrs. Bradley distastefully. “Besides, you won’t get any more from those nephews.”
“Why not?”
“Because Lewis and Richmond are speaking the truth, Frederick, in spite of what he says, has an excellent memory for what he said last time (whether it is the truth or not) and Godfrey, because of his training in law, will see through every question you ask him and will answer to his own advantage. But I was about to remark…”
“Well, we’ll tackle the truth-tellers first,” said the Chief Constable, “and find out whether truth isn’t double-faced as well as double-edged. I’ll send Ekkers over.”
“But I was about to remark,” repeated Mrs. Bradley firmly, “that Frederick had his own means of raising money from his uncle, and would not have killed the goose which had suddenly begun to lay golden eggs.”
“Oh, the blackmail business he mentioned! Yes, of course, that’s a point. We’d better explore that hidey-hole in the floor. I suppose the diptych is there.”
“I’ve told you already,” said Lewis Aumbry in resigned tones, “that on the day of my uncle’s death I was playing golf at Sandwich. I’ve given you the names of my partner and of my opponents. You’ve questioned them and they bear out what I say. What more can I add? I didn’t kill a seagull in flight, I didn’t even get a birdie, and I didn’t stay for a drink at the nineteenth. I went home and had a bath, then I dined at a restaurant in Greek Street where they know me and can swear to me, and then I went to my club and stayed until midnight. I could scarcely have returned to Merlin’s and killed my uncle before three o’clock next morning. What else do you want to know?”
“Nothing, sir,” the inspector morosely replied. “I’m off now to interview your cousin, Mr. Frederick.”
“Much good may it do you! Anyway, good luck!”
“Account for my movements on the day and night of my uncle’s death? Can’t do that, old boy,” said Frederick, shaking his head. “Honour of a gentleman involved, and all that sort of thing. However, this much I’ll tell you. I was in my flat—you’ve got the address—from about eleven pip emma. Had been flung out of a pub in or near Leicester Square just before closing time. Can’t remember which pub—too sozzled—but you’ll be able to find it. I expect they all know me round there. Anyway, I managed to get home without being pinched, and after that—well, I expect you know the ballad of the dear little thingummy’s daughter? What? And that’s as far as I’m prepared to let the poor young baggage down. Anything else we can do for you?”
“Nothing, sir.” He had the fatalistic feeling that Frederick’s alibi would be foolproof. He went off to interview Richmond.
“Where was I?” asked Richmond incredulously. “Good heavens, I’ve already told you where I was! Why should I attempt to recall these revolting details? If you think I killed my uncle, well, pinch me for it and make yourself look damn’ silly.”
The inspector gave it up and called upon Godfrey. Godfrey was ready with chapter and verse.
“I have nothing different to say, but I can add a little,” he promised. “On the night when, according to the medical evidence, my uncle died, I had been at a public dinner in London. It is a pity, apparently, that I was not one of the after-dinner speakers, but, all the same, I assure you that I did not leave my place at table until we broke up at about eleven. The dinner was held at the Chamoisie and after it I went back to my flat and played bridge for a couple of hours with three friends who have agreed that I should give you their names and addresses. If you think that I could have left my flat at about half-past one and driven down to Merlin’s Furlong and killed my uncle after he was dead…!”
“No, no, sir, of course not. But you, in your profession, will realise I have to make these routine enquiries to fill in my report. I’d better have those names and addresses, though, so as to square everything up.”
“I hope you will not only take the names and addresses, but that you will call upon the persons concerned,” said Godfrey austerely, “and satisfy yourself that what I have said is correct.”
“It’s a job for the Yard now, sir,” said the inspector, reporting to the Chief Constable. “Three out of the four of those nephews live in London.”
“I don’t think we’ll trouble the Yard yet, you know, Ekkers. Richmond lives in Wallchester, and he’s the obvious suspect still, from the point of view of motive. Besides, it might be said that he refuses to account for his movements. By the way, I suppose there’s still no trace of that manservant those three boys mentioned?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, sir.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It’s about as promising as the four-and-twenty blackbirds in the pie, sir,” the inspector lugubriously announced. “In other words, there just isn’t any such person.”
“The professor had no manservant, do you mean?”
“Exactly that, sir. When he left his lodgings in Wallchester to come down here, he used to manage with a couple of women from the village. There were no regular servants at Merlin’s Castle, as we found out before, and the professor has never employed a gentleman’s gentleman in his life, except the negro we’ve already interviewed, and he seldom came down to the Castle.”
“That’s rather interesting.”
“It may be interesting, sir, but I must say it’s depressing. We’ve wasted a lot of time.”
“Not al
l that much. Cheer up, man. We now know two things about the fellow that we didn’t know before. We know he wasn’t a manservant, and we know he wasn’t a local chap. Wallchester is your hunting ground again, I rather fancy.”
“Our enquiries there are likely to end in smoke, sir. We’ve simply nothing to go on, except to pinch Mr. Richmond Aumbry.”
“Look here, suppose we take these three young idiots and give them to you as your assistants? After all, they’ve seen this man at very close range, have talked to him, and ought to be able to spot him again even if he’s entirely differently dressed. We’ve told them they must hold themselves at our disposal.”
“Suppose he’s acquired a beard, sir? If they could hear his voice I’d say there was a chance, but it’s all too easy to change a clean-shaven chap’s appearance.”
“Yes, that’s true. Oh, well, if you think it’s no go, we’ll leave it alone. Anyway, they might be more nuisance than they’re worth. Perhaps we could lease them out to Mrs. Bradley! She’s probably far better able to keep the tabs on them than we are. Where are they now?”
“Still lodging with the sergeant and me, sir. They’re paying right well, I’ll say that.”
“Well, I’m glad we discharged them with a few solemn words. I’m certainly not prepared to jug them, even for breaking and entering. A blind eye had to be turned to the fact that they got into those two houses. I’m rather glad they did, as a matter of fact. As we’ve said before, it has brought us into these cases days before we might have found out anything, and that is certainly something to be thankful for, particularly in the case of Professor Havers, who’d been so recently killed.”
“As you say, sir. As their fathers’ lawyers have been at some pains to point out, there’s such a thing as habeas corpus. We couldn’t have held them without charging them with something, even if not with murder. We’d have been on the wrong side of the law altogether.”
Harrison had been greatly impressed by the Chief Constable’s magnanimity. Piper (who had been carrying on a flirtation with the sergeant’s daughter and was achieving his usual success in such matters) was slightly regretful to be given his freedom so soon, and Waite, by far the most single-minded and purposeful of the party, was quietly and ruthlessly preparing to turn their promised detective work into the rag of the season.
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