‘It could be.’
‘Then who was the someone? Not either of the Farradays.’
‘That would certainly seem unlikely.’
‘And I’d say Mr Anthony Browne is equally unlikely. That leaves us two people—an affectionate sister-in-law—’
‘And a devoted secretary.’
Kemp looked at him.
‘Yes—she could have planted something of the kind on him—I’m due now to go to Kidderminster House—What about you? Going round to see Miss Marle?’
‘I think I’ll go and see the other one—at the office. Condolences of an old friend. I might take her out to lunch.’
‘So that is what you think.’
‘I don’t think anything yet. I’m casting about for spoor.’
‘You ought to see Iris Marle, all the same.’
‘I’m going to see her—but I’d rather go to the house first when she isn’t there. Do you know why, Kemp?’
‘I’m sure I couldn’t say.’
‘Because there’s someone there who twitters—twitters like a little bird…A little bird told me—was a saying of my youth. It’s very true, Kemp—these twitterers can tell one a lot if one just lets them—twitter!’
Chapter 4
The two men parted. Race halted a taxi and was driven to George Barton’s office in the city. Chief Inspector Kemp, mindful of his expense account, took a bus to within a stone’s throw of Kidderminster House.
The inspector’s face was rather grim as he mounted the steps and pushed the bell. He was, he knew, on difficult ground. The Kidderminster faction had immense political influence and its ramifications spread out like a network throughout the country. Chief Inspector Kemp had full belief in the impartiality of British justice. If Stephen or Alexandra Farraday had been concerned in the death of Rosemary Barton or in that of George Barton no ‘pull’ or ‘influence’ would enable them to escape the consequences. But if they were guiltless, or the evidence against them was too vague to ensure conviction, then the responsible officer must be careful how he trod or he would be liable to get a rap over the knuckles from his superiors. In these circumstances it can be understood that the chief inspector did not much relish what lay before him. It seemed to him highly probable that the Kidderminsters would, as he phrased it to himself, ‘cut up rough’.
Kemp soon found, however, that he had been somewhat naïve in his assumption. Lord Kidderminster was far too experienced a diplomat to resort to crudities.
On stating his business, Chief Inspector Kemp was taken at once by a pontifical butler to a dim book-lined room at the back of the house where he found Lord Kidderminster and his daughter and son-in-law awaiting him.
Coming forward, Lord Kidderminster shook hands and said courteously:
‘You are exactly on time, chief inspector. May I say that I much appreciate your courtesy in coming here instead of demanding that my daughter and her husband should come to Scotland Yard which, of course, they would have been quite prepared to do if necessary—that goes without saying—but they appreciate your kindness.’
Sandra said in a quiet voice:
‘Yes, indeed, inspector.’
She was wearing a dress of some soft dark red material, and sitting as she was with the light from the long narrow window behind her, she reminded Kemp of a stained glass figure he had once seen in a cathedral abroad. The long oval of her face and the slight angularity of her shoulders helped the illusion. Saint Somebody or other, they had told him—but Lady Alexandra Farraday was no saint—not by a long way. And yet some of these old saints had been funny people from his point of view, not kindly ordinary decent Christian folk, but intolerant, fanatical, cruel to themselves and others.
Stephen Farraday stood close by his wife. His face expressed no emotion whatever. He looked correct and formal, an appointed legislator of the people. The natural man was well buried. But the natural man was there, as the chief inspector knew.
Lord Kidderminster was speaking, directing with a good deal of ability the trend of the interview.
‘I won’t disguise from you, chief inspector, that this is a very painful and disagreeable business for us all. This is the second time that my daughter and son-in-law have been connected with a violent death in a public place—the same restaurant and two members of the same family. Publicity of such a kind is always harmful to a man in the public eye. Publicity, of course, cannot be avoided. We all realize that, and both my daughter and Mr Farraday are anxious to give you all the help they can in the hope that the matter may be cleared up speedily and public interest in it die down.’
‘Thank you, Lord Kidderminster. I much appreciate the attitude you have taken up. It certainly makes things easier for us.’
Sandra Farraday said:
‘Please ask us any questions you like, chief inspector.’
‘Thank you, Lady Alexandra.’
‘Just one point, chief inspector,’ said Lord Kidderminster. ‘You have, of course, your own sources of information and I gather from my friend the Commissioner that this man Barton’s death is regarded as murder rather than suicide, though on the face of it, to the outside public, suicide would seem a more likely explanation. You thought it was suicide, didn’t you, Sandra, my dear?’
The Gothic figure bowed its head slightly. Sandra said in a thoughtful voice:
‘It seemed to me so obvious last night. We were there in the same restaurant and actually at the same table where poor Rosemary Barton poisoned herself last year. We have seen something of Mr Barton during the summer in the country and he has really been very odd—quite unlike himself—and we all thought that his wife’s death was preying on his mind. He was very fond of her, you know, and I don’t think he ever got over her death. So that the idea of suicide seemed, it not natural, at least possible—whereas I can’t imagine why anyone should want to murder George Barton.’
Stephen Farraday said quickly:
‘No more can I. Barton was an excellent fellow. I’m sure he hadn’t got an enemy in the world.’
Chief Inspector Kemp looked at the three inquiring faces turned towards him and reflected a moment before speaking. ‘Better let ’em have it,’ he thought to himself.
‘What you say is quite correct, I am sure, Lady Alexandra. But you see there are a few things that you probably don’t know yet.’
Lord Kidderminster interposed quickly:
‘We mustn’t force the chief inspector’s hand. It is entirely in his discretion what facts he makes public.’
‘Thanks, m’lord, but there’s no reason I shouldn’t explain things a little more clearly. I’ll boil it down to this. George Barton, before his death, expressed to two people his belief that his wife had not, as was believed, committed suicide, but had instead been poisoned by some third party. He also thought that he was on the track of that third party, and the dinner and celebration last night, ostensibly in honour of Miss Marle’s birthday, was really some part of a plan he had made for finding out the identity of his wife’s murderer.’
There was a moment’s silence—and in that silence Chief Inspector Kemp, who was a sensitive man in spite of his wooden appearance, felt the presence of something that he classified as dismay. It was not apparent on any face, but he could have sworn that it was there.
Lord Kidderminster was the first to recover himself. He said:
‘But surely—that belief in itself might point to the fact that poor Barton was not quite—er—himself? Brooding over his wife’s death might have slightly unhinged him mentally.’
‘Quite so, Lord Kidderminster, but it at least shows that his frame of mind was definitely not suicidal.’
‘Yes—yes, I take your point.’
And again there was silence. Then Stephen Farraday said sharply:
‘But how did Barton get such an idea into his head? After all, Mrs Barton did commit suicide.’
Chief Inspector Kemp transferred a placid gaze to him.
‘Mr Barton didn’t think so.’
Lord Kidderminster interposed.
‘But the police were satisfied? There was no suggestion of anything but suicide at the time?’
Chief Inspector Kemp said quietly:
‘The facts were compatible with suicide. There was no evidence that her death was due to any other agency.’
He knew that a man of Lord Kidderminster’s calibre would seize on the exact meaning of that.
Becoming slightly more official, Kemp said, ‘I would like to ask you some questions now, if I may, Lady Alexandra?’
‘Certainly.’ She turned her head slightly towards him.
‘You had no suspicions at the time of Mr Barton’s death that it might be murder, not suicide?’
‘Certainly not. I was quite sure it was suicide.’ She added, ‘I still am.’
Kemp let that pass. He said:
‘Have you received any anonymous letters in the past year, Lady Alexandra?’
The calm of her manner seemed broken by pure astonishment.
‘Anonymous letters? Oh, no.’
‘You’re quite sure? Such letters are very unpleasant things and people usually prefer to ignore them, but they may be particularly important in this case, and that is why I want to stress that if you did receive any such letters it is most essential that I should know about them.’
‘I see. But I can only assure you, chief inspector, that I have received nothing of the kind.’
‘Very well. Now you say Mr Barton’s manner has been odd this summer. In what way?’
She considered a minute.
‘Well, he was jumpy, nervous. It seemed difficult for him to focus his attention on what was said to him.’ She turned her head towards her husband. ‘Was that how it struck you, Stephen?’
‘Yes, I should say that was a very fair description. The man looked physically ill, too. He had lost weight.’
‘Did you notice any difference in his attitude towards you and your husband? Any less cordiality, for instance?’
‘No. On the contrary. He had bought a house, you know, quite close to us, and he seemed very grateful for what we were able to do for him—in the way of local introductions, I mean, and all that. Of course we were only too pleased to do everything we could in that line, both for him and for Iris Marle who is a charming girl.’
‘Was the late Mrs Barton a great friend of yours, Lady Alexandra?’
‘No, we were not very intimate.’ She gave a light laugh. ‘She was really mostly Stephen’s friend. She became interested in politics and he helped to—well, educate her politically—which I’m sure he enjoyed. She was a very charming and attractive woman, you know.’
‘And you’re a very clever one,’ thought Chief Inspector Kemp to himself appreciatively. ‘I wonder how much you know about those two—a good deal, I shouldn’t wonder.’
He went on:
‘Mr Barton never expressed to you the view that his wife did not commit suicide?’
‘No, indeed. That was why I was so startled just now.’
‘And Miss Marle? She never talked about her sister’s death, either?’
‘No.’
‘Any idea what made George Barton buy a house in the country? Did you or your husband suggest the idea to him?’
‘No. It was quite a surprise.’
‘And his manner to you was always friendly?’
‘Very friendly indeed.’
‘And what do you know about Mr Anthony Browne, Lady Alexandra?’
‘I really know nothing at all. I have met him occasionally and that is all.’
‘What about you, Mr Farraday?’
‘I think I know probably less about Browne than my wife does. She at any rate has danced with him. He seems a likeable chap—American, I believe.’
‘Would you say from observation at the time that he was on special terms of intimacy with Mrs Barton?’
‘I have absolutely no knowledge on that point, chief inspector.’
‘I am simply asking you for your impression, Mr Farraday.’
Stephen frowned.
‘They were friendly—that is all I can say.’
‘And you, Lady Alexandra?’
‘Simply my impression, chief inspector?’
‘Simply your impression.’
‘Then, for what it is worth, I did form the impression that they knew each other well and were on intimate terms. Simply, you understand, from the way they looked at each other—I have no concrete evidence.’
‘Ladies have often very good judgement on these matters,’ said Kemp. That somewhat fatuous smile with which he delivered this remark would have amused Colonel Race if he had been present. ‘Now, what about Miss Lessing, Lady Alexandra?’
‘Miss Lessing, I understand, was Mr Barton’s secretary. I met her for the first time on the evening that Mrs Barton died. After that I met her once when she was staying down in the country, and last night.’
‘If I may ask you another informal question, did you form the impression that she was in love with George Barton?’
‘I really haven’t the least idea.’
‘Then we’ll come to the events of last night.’
He questioned both Stephen and his wife minutely on the course of the tragic evening. He had not hoped for much from this, and all he got was confirmation of what he had already been told. All accounts agreed on the important points—Barton had proposed a toast to Iris, had drunk it and immediately afterwards had got up to dance. They had all left the table together and George and Iris had been the first to return to it. Neither of them had any explanation to offer as to the empty chair except that George Barton had distinctly said that he was expecting a friend of his, a Colonel Race, to occupy it later in the evening—a statement which, as the inspector knew, could not possibly be the truth. Sandra Farraday said, and her husband agreed, that when the lights went up after the cabaret, George had stared at the empty chair in a peculiar manner and had for some moments seemed so absent-minded as not to hear what was said to him—then he had rallied himself and proposed Iris’s health.
The only item that the chief inspector could count as an addition to his knowledge, was Sandra’s account of her conversation with George at Fairhaven—and his plea that she and her husband would collaborate with him over this party for Iris’s sake.
It was a reasonably plausible pretext, the chief inspector thought, though not the true one. Closing his notebook in which he had jotted down one or two hieroglyphics, he rose to his feet.
‘I’m very grateful to you, my lord, and to Mr Farraday and Lady Alexandra for your help and collaboration.’
‘Will my daughter’s presence be required at the inquest?’
‘The proceedings will be purely formal on this occasion. Evidence of identification and the medical evidence will be taken and the inquest will then be adjourned for a week. By then, ’said the chief inspector, his tone changing slightly, ‘we shall, I hope, be further on.’
He turned to Stephen Farraday:
‘By the way, Mr Farraday, there are one or two small points where I think you could help me. No need to trouble Lady Alexandra. If you will give me a ring at the Yard, we can settle a time that will suit you. You are, I know, a busy man.’
It was pleasantly said, with an air of casualness, but on three pairs of ears the words fell with deliberate meaning.
With an air of friendly co-operation Stephen managed to say:
‘Certainly, chief inspector.’ Then he looked at his watch and murmured: ‘I must go along to the House.’
When Stephen had hurried off, and the chief inspector had likewise departed, Lord Kidderminster turned to his daughter and asked a question with no beating about the bush.
‘Had Stephen been having an affair with that woman?’
There was a split second of a pause before his daughter answered.
‘Of course not. I should have known it if he had. And anyway, Stephen’s not that kind.’
‘Now, look here, my dear, no good laying your
ears back and digging your hoofs in. These things are bound to come out. We want to know where we are in this business.’
‘Rosemary Barton was a friend of that man, Anthony Browne. They went about everywhere together.’
‘Well,’ said Lord Kidderminster slowly. ‘You should know.’
He did not believe his daughter. His face, as he went slowly out of the room, was grey and perplexed. He went upstairs to his wife’s sitting-room. He had vetoed her presence in the library, knowing too well that her arrogant methods were apt to arouse antagonism and at this juncture he felt it vital that relations with the official police should be harmonious.
‘Well?’ said Lady Kidderminster. ‘How did it go off?’
‘Quite well on the face of it,’ said Lord Kidderminster slowly. ‘Kemp is a courteous fellow—very pleasant in his manner—he handled the whole thing with tact—just a little too much tact for my fancy.’
‘It’s serious, then?’
‘Yes, it’s serious. We should never have let Sandra marry that fellow, Vicky.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Yes—yes…’ He acknowledged her claim. ‘You were right—and I was wrong. But, mind you, she would have had him anyway. You can’t turn Sandra when her mind is fixed on a thing. Her meeting Farraday was a disaster—a man of whose antecedents and ancestors we know nothing. When a crisis comes how does one know how a man like that will react?’
‘I see,’ said Lady Kidderminster. ‘You think we’ve taken a murderer into the family?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to condemn the fellow off-hand—but it’s what the police think—and they’re pretty shrewd. He had an affair with this Barton woman—that’s plain enough. Either she committed suicide on his account, or else he—Well, whatever happened, Barton got wise to it and was heading for an exposé and scandal. I suppose Stephen simply couldn’t take it—and—’
‘Poisoned him?’
‘Yes.’
Lady Kidderminster shook her head.
‘I don’t agree with you.’
‘I hope you’re right. But somebody poisoned him.’
‘If you ask me,’ said Lady Kidderminster, ‘Stephen simply wouldn’t have the nerve to do a thing like that.’
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