‘It’s as bad as that?’
‘Well, consider the business of Auldearn’s skull. Is that going to be convincing – convincing in court, with a subtle mind working against it?’
‘It all fits.’
‘Quite so. I think it is a triumph. But do you think they’ll miss the point that it’s a triumph of your own craft – a bit of ingenious fiction? It may have been so. It sounds beautiful. But there is just no shred of evidence that Nave ever picked up that cross or thought about the consistency of Auldearn’s skull or spoilt a dramatic effect by outing with a revolver. Counsel wouldn’t be at it for ten minutes before it was just a lovely picture in the air.’
‘You don’t believe–’
‘But never mind about me! It’s my job to think of a judge and jury. And when I do that in this business I’m scared. Say I want evidence.’
‘The messages.’
‘Planted.’
‘Nave’s fresh fingerprint on the line “the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge”. You find that three minutes after the message had come from his room. It’s that that’s conclusive. As you said yourself: fingerprints still catch criminals by the pint. Nave knew to leave nothing on the revolver or cross; but running his finger down a page of Shakespeare – he never thought.’
‘Yes, that fingerprint’ – Appleby was kicking absently at an imaginary object on the carpet – ‘it was on the strength of that finger-print that I gave a sort of agreement to Sandford’s acting. To put it ignobly: if Nave is tried and acquitted that fingerprint will save me from ignominy.’ He stood stock-still. ‘He says he was in his bath.’
‘At the moment of the sixth message? But what does he say about the print?’
Appleby shook an almost indulgent head. ‘Bless us, he doesn’t know of that yet. That’s to keep a bit. And I promise you it needs adding to. Evidence needed – that’s the word. By the way, Giles, about the motive – you don’t think you were a bit carried away?’
‘Perhaps I ran it up a bit.’
‘Quite so. What an unstable world we live in nowadays. And therefore did one Richard Nave, Knight, having one set of convictions, feloniously kill one Ian Stewart, Baron Auldearn, having–’
‘Really, John.’
‘All right. But I’m only putting what will be put in court. They will boil it down to look just like that. And what evidence have we? With Malloch we had at least an actual deadly feud about which we could have brought witnesses. But with Nave we have no single specific record of his having cherished one fleeting impulse of hatred for Auldearn from the moment of his birth to this. What you say about the power of impersonal, ideological hatreds may be abundantly true. But the jury aren’t going to be what you called “intellectually and speculatively inclined men”. They’re going to be butchers and bakers – perhaps fortunately so. And they’re going to be thoroughly disconcerted when they’re told that there is no personal or private element in the affair and that Nave is a murderer because he is a hard-boiled nominalist who rejects the validity of the subjectively apprehended epistemological problem of–’
‘I don’t–’
‘But that’s what they’ll say! And I put it to you myself that the motive’s weak. It came partly from your own habit of mind, Giles. For talking of hatred, nobody hates a forthright, aggressive atheist like Nave so much as a muzzy and apologetic agnostic, consciously steeped in the benefits of Christian tradition, like yourself.’
Gott ran quick fingers through his hair. ‘That’s fair enough,’ he said. ‘I believe you could presently persuade me that I’ve made an unholy ass of myself.’
‘It’s a matter of us, not you. But the point is – evidence. Just put it at that at present: we’re short of evidence.’
‘Yes, but I want your own conviction now, John. Taking the case against Nave as I outlined it, is there anything you blankly disbelieve?’
‘Yes, there is – and it’s what makes me feel that we’re not through yet – certainly that without more evidence we shall be lost in court. I don’t think you really got round to the snag – the business of Bunney, I mean, and Nave’s undoubted alibi for that, I admit the full force of your main position there: Why a murderous attack when a simple theft was possible? But beyond that I can’t go. I don’t see these spies tracking me about Scamnum. And whatever you and your precious, short-sighted Rauth may say, I don’t see myself as that Bunney’s double. If it were a case of real doubles – like the Terborg girls, for instance – I could swallow the story. But the fact that there is a resemblance is not good enough. Before hitting a man on the head like that, one makes sure. It’s what counsel would detect as another tinge of fiction about your version. I want a better explanation of Bunney. As it stands, I know it’s going to be a weakness in the story.’
Cott looked at Appleby thoughtfully. ‘I believe you distrust the story altogether.’
‘No.’ Appleby spoke very carefully. ‘If I had distrusted the story altogether, I would have opposed the arrest – as a matter of principle if not of policy. There is a case against Nave too strong to distrust altogether. His arrest was justified. But I have certain doubts. And at the back of them – to some extent at least – is the fact that the case is yours, Giles – is so brilliantly yours. Don’t misunderstand. I’m simply scared by a sense of your extraordinary facility in these matters. You created a magnificent case – or at least a magnificent effect. But some people would say that you could have done the same with half a dozen other suspects.’
‘In fact, the irresponsible romancer. It wasn’t just like that, you know.’
‘I don’t say it was. I’m sure you weighed up the probabilities responsibly enough before you let me lead you off to Sandford. But you know what I do mean.’
‘You mean that my wretched fancy will work on anything. Give it a start and off it goes. Which is true enough. But I’ve rejected a good many starts because they were plainly nothing more than an invitation to fancy. I’ve dredged through everything that happened in the past week and all sorts of notions have started up as I did so. Things that this or that person said which the romancer – I suppose – could build on.’
Appleby was still restless – roaming about while pulling heavily at a pipe. ‘Yes…yes. Such as?’
‘Well – Piper; I told you about that. Piper displaying a dark and yearning zest for miching mallecho. One might build on that.’
‘Anything else?’
Gott made an irritated gesture. ‘Futile fancies,’ he said. ‘The Duchess, for instance. Coming up the drive in his car, Auldearn said something about the Duchess that might have been a beautiful dramatic irony. The Duchess was one who would work underground for weeks to contrive a minute’s perfect effect. And a little later Elizabeth said something equally dark about Bunney: that he was the Spy in Black, black-boxing secrets of state.’
Something snapped. Appleby caught at his pipe as it fell, took the bitten-off mouth-piece from his lips and looked at it. Then he looked at Gott. And then he moved towards the door.
‘John, what on earth is it? And where are you off to?’
‘It’s the truth – the first glimmer of the truth. And I’m off to chum up with Nave. It will be only discreet.’
The door opened as he approached it. Mr Gylby’s head appeared. ‘I say, may we come in? Diana thinks she’s busted the auto-da-fé.’
‘She’s what?’
‘Spiked the chivvying of infidel Nave. You see–’
‘Get on!’ said Diana from behind. A moment later she was in the room and had thrust a limp white object at Appleby. ‘There!’ she said.
Appleby looked at it. ‘Yes. But everything, you know, has been examined–’
‘Examined!’ said Diana. ‘Well the examiners haven’t got no noses. Smell it.’
Appleby smelt it. ‘Yes,’ he said – and handed it t
o Gott. Gott sniffed and shook his head. Appleby turned to Noel. ‘And you?’ Noel, too, shook his head. Appleby tossed the object on a table. ‘As one would expect,’ he said, ‘very faint indeed. And, though Miss Sandys and I detect it, it isn’t evidence. But it’s a clue.’ He turned to Diana. ‘It is Mme Merkalova’s?’
‘It is,’ said Diana with deep satisfaction.
‘And the confederate’ – Appleby made some effort of memory – ‘is one of five persons: the Duke, Gervase Crispin, Dr Biddle, Clay, Cope.’
Gott stared at him. ‘Why, in heaven’s name, these?’
‘Because they were the five backstage people who had some conversation with the Dowager Duchess of Horton.’
Clay and Elizabeth were walking down the long corridor together towards their bedrooms. ‘I’ve been feeling glad it’s over,’ said Clay; ‘but really, of course, it’s not over yet. The police-court and the trial and so forth will all be rather horrible.’
‘It seems a pity they can’t quietly shut him up. It seems the rational thing to do.’
Clay shook his head. ‘Possibly so – but only after a trial. Mad or sane, he must have his chance. But mad or sane he’s dangerous and – I suppose – tormented. Better dead. I for one will be glad when he’s hanged.’
Elizabeth shivered slightly. They had paused at Clay’s door.
‘I’m afraid’, said Clay, ‘you must feel a bit shaken after it all? While there’s mystery the tension keeps one going. But afterwards one finds one is badly shocked.’
‘No,’ said Elizabeth – firmly and with something of Diana’s reaction – for Clay’s ‘one’ seemed directed at her sex. ‘It hasn’t left me shocked. Only distinctly hungry.’
‘Bless us! Well, have a biscuit.’ And Clay dodged through his door and reappeared with a little silver bedside box.
Elizabeth took a biscuit; then stared in surprise. There were at least a dozen biscuits left. ‘Why,’ she cried, amused, ‘it was you who rifled the pantry and upset Rauth!’
‘I know nothing about that,’ said Clay.
‘But there are never more than six–’ Elizabeth glanced at Clay; their eyes met; she stopped. He had made a mistake – the first, perhaps, in the whole affair – and he knew it. And she knew it. And he knew that too.
Elizabeth took a heroic bite at her biscuit. ‘Stupid of me,’ she said – hardly knowing what the words were. ‘And thank you. Good night.’ And unhurryingly but with a whirling head she went on to her room.
She closed the door and leant against it, waiting for her brain to stop rotating and come clear. She knew that she had no new knowledge. All along – or ever since Clay had performed those dazzling tricks in the little drawing-room – she had known – something. Now it was simply that her knowledge had been revealed to her.
‘Silly!’ said Elizabeth aloud, and conscious of herself as watchful against hysteria. Then, regardless of her astonished maid, she opened the door and went out again into the corridor. It might be a mere brainstorm. Anyway, she was going to see it through.
Down the corridor and round a corner; once more she was outside Clay’s room. She had a momentary impulse to knock at Charles Piper’s door opposite. But she suppressed it and raised her hand to knock on Clay’s door instead. A voice was speaking within and something – something perhaps in its quality as conveyed in mere murmur through the solid wood – made her pause again. She was suddenly aware that she was on the verge of veritable danger, that common decencies were suspended, that there was a job of work she could do. Her hand, raised against the panel, fell to the door-knob, turned it, gently opened the door a fraction of an inch. And Clay’s voice, guarded but vibrant at the house-telephone, came clearly.
‘Anna…are you alone? Listen. In fifteen minutes – ten perhaps – they’ll have it all worked out. Can you make the cow-house straight away…you know? Take nothing…no…there first…it’s hidden there. Over the wall they’ll be cruising round…quick now…’
Softly, Elizabeth closed the door. The cow-house straight away… hidden there…they’ll be cruising round… She turned and ran back to her own room, burst in. ‘Jean, find the police, Mr Gott, Mr Gylby. Tell them to come to the cow-house at once. At once – you understand? Go…now!’
Anything might happen at Scamnum in these days. And Jean was from Kincrae; she had been unnerved once by these strange events and was determined not to be so again. ‘Yes, my lady,’ she said and ran from the room.
Elizabeth kicked off evening slippers and thrust on shoes. Then she ran out and along the corridor, going left to avoid the route by Clay’s room. In a minute she was downstairs and out by a side door.
‘Run, girls, run!’ murmured Elizabeth. Her views on female athletics were Dillon and satiric. But her spirits as she plunged down the terraces were Dillon and Crispin both. She took the final steps with a leap. Her heart was pounding as she ran: it’s hidden there…it’s hidden there.
Charles Piper sat in his room and made notes on the events of the day. Having his own ideas of what was interesting and what was not, he was far from giving his attention exclusively to the queer and deporable affair of Sir Richard Nave. He had enjoyed some conversation with Vanessa Terborg – an interesting type – and he made notes on that. He thought out a short story set in Venice for someone rather like the Duchess, and then changed Venice to Pienza as less hackneyed. And then he thought of Melville Clay.
Of all the people at Scamnum, Clay interested him most. It was not Clay’s meteoric career, appearing from nowhere and rising to eminence in a few years; rather it was something integral to the man himself. There was, for instance, that feminine streak…the way he had stood that very morning, posed with his back to the window, tilting the little shaving-mirror now here, now there on his face.
Piper frowned; the frown gave place to something startled. In the hall after the murder, when he had glimpsed Clay through the curtain talking to the Dowager Duchess…surely there had been some similar impression connected with that? A contrived ease – that was it! an ease of poise and movement that was actually, to a more than commonly sensitive eye, the result of terrific concentration. Why?…why? And then something further about that fleeting picture in the hall; something that had registered itself just off the focus of consciousness in Piper’s then agitated mind…something surprising …a surprising appearance. Surely the old lady had been asleep.
And that mirror… Piper leapt to his feet with something like a shout, looked round as if in search of a weapon, then ran out and across the corridor to Clay’s door. He paused before it for a moment. Then he opened it and walked straight in – straight into a world of melodrama. Clay was gone. But a lady’s maid – Elizabeth’s maid – lay bound and gagged upon the carpet.
And Piper whirled into action. He got the girl free, he got the story, he telephoned, he sent her to the police. And then he leapt to the window and vaulted to the sill. He dropped to an architrave, to the porte cochère, to the colonnade, to the ground. And ran. His pumps were split and his feet were bruised – but undoubtedly one saved thirty seconds that way.
He ran steadily and well, as people who practise deep breathing are able to do.
2
Elizabeth paused cautiously on the threshold of Duke Peter’s picturesque cow-house. It was utterly silent. She was here before them. And with luck the police would be here before them too – catch them in ambush; unless – it was an ugly thought – they were already here in a kind of ambush themselves. And Elizabeth realized that she was standing in idiotic silhouette under the arched doorway. Hastily, she slipped into shadow.
The cow-house, commonly so pleasing an absurdity, was eerie now. A low-riding sliver of moon was fleeting amid gathering clouds; the uncertain light came and went about the bogus ruin, gliding up the steps so ingeniously hollowed as if by generations of pious feet, playing on the crisply chiselled draperies of saints who
stood as they had been fashioned without heads or arms. The mouldering tower, no more mouldering than on the day it was built, rose with an impressive appearance of insecurity overhead; the pale ivy stirring about it in the night breeze like myriad-tongued green flame, the bats flitting round, a single owl hooting from some crenellated fastness. All, Elizabeth thought, as Peter would have liked, but unnerving on the present occasion. For a moment the moon went; she slipped inside. It was wholly dark. In a sudden impulse of panic she whirled round on herself, as if a dagger threatened her where a dagger threatened Bose. Nothing. But she pressed her back against the wall and stood quite still, palms pricking. The little wind rustled in the ivy. The moon came again; she searched the dissolving darkness, the outlines of the forming shadows; suppressed a cry. Close to her feet the pale stone floor was flecked with drops of red.
But queerly luminous red. And her breath went out in a wary sigh of relief; she looked up to the fictively shattered traceries of a rose-window – and to the ruby-coloured lights of fictively shattered stained glass. ‘Oh, Peter,’ she breathed to herself, ‘you did give me a truly Gothic thrill!’ And she moved boldly forward again. In this Radcliffean world you took your courage in both hands and all was well; no mystery too horrid to plumb. But let go and you would outyelp Stella Terborg.
It was hidden here. If she knew just what the hidden thing was she would have some idea where best to look for it. And she wanted to get it. Somebody, something – a car perhaps – was cruising round – waiting for Clay and the woman over the wall. And if Clay were here, say, within two minutes he might conceivably be ahead still of the police. And get away – get away with it.
The cow-house was used as a store for garden things; shelves had been built round the old cattle stalls to take flower-pots, bags of lime and manure, miscellaneous implements. She crossed rapidly to the end stall and her eye, as if abnormally acute, went in an instant to the upper shelf. There stood a row of little sacks – uniform, but from one a little trickle of whitish stuff had fallen to the floor. She reached for it. The mouth was folded under, but unstitched. She plunged in her hand. ‘Got it!’ Elizabeth was exultant in her swift success. And in the same instant she heard a sound outside, a sound that was neither wind-stirred ivy nor bat nor owl.
Hamlet Revenge! Page 30
