The Unfinished Clue

by Джорджетт Хейер

  "How much?" interrupted Dinah.

  Harding replied with perfect gravity: "No absinthe, no shower in her bathroom, dead hares, and -"

  " Did she tell you all that?" said Dinah. "Don't you think she's rather good value?"

  "Yes, but she wastes my time. I know that young Billirigton-Smith sat outside her door holding his head in his hands for an hour after his father had disinherited him, I know he left the house in an extremely overwrought condition, and had hysterics when he returned. I know that Mrs. Halliday was encouraging the General to flirt with her, and that Halliday loathed it. I know that your sister had a quarrel with the General yesterday morning that upset her very much, and I know also — I am being perfectly straightforward, Miss Fawcett — that she and Guest are in love with each other. Does that clear the air at all?"

  Dinah grimaced. "You know too much, Mr. Harding. What on earth is there left for me to tell you?"

  "You're going to tell me your version of what happened yesterday —- bearing in mind that I've received from one at least of the people I've mentioned , a highly coloured account."

  "Yes, but I don't want to say anything that might make you suspect Fay, or Stephen, or even Geoffrey of having done the murder," objected Dinah frankly.

  "Remember, Miss Fawcett, that I've already enough data about all these people to make me suspect them."

  "Well, go ahead," sighed Dinah, folding her hands in her lap.

  "We'll start with a talk you had with Geoffrey Billington-Smith on Saturday, outside Miss de Silva's bedroom door. Is it a fact that he threatened to do something desperate if his father interfered between him and Miss de Silva?"

  "That," commented Dinah, "sounds to me like that ass of a housemaid, Dawson. I wonder where she was lurking?"

  "Never mind about the ass of a housemaid," said Harding, with the hint of a smile in his eyes. "Did he say something to that effect?"

  "Yes — a lot of dramatic stuff. I've noticed that ineffectual people usually do go in for highfalutin threats."

  "Is he ineffectual?"

  "Ghastly. No guts at all," said Miss Fawcett elegantly. "So I inferred. At the same time, he's undoubtedly very emotional. Isn't that so?"

  "Yes, but it's the sort of emotionalism that raves instead of doing anything. I've no use for Geoffrey, but I honestly don't think he killed Arthur, Mr. Harding."

  "We'll hope not, anyway. Now about this week-end party: was the atmosphere very thunderous?"

  "Rather! It always is when Arthur's on the rampage."

  "Did he take it out of your sister?"

  "More or less."

  "In public?"

  "Anywhere."

  "And yesterday morning it culminated in a more than usually serious quarrel with her?"

  "You've got that bit wrong," said Dinah. "Fay couldn't quarrel with anybody, and certainly not with Arthur. I wasn't present, so I don't know exactly what happened. but from what I can gather she tried to intercede for Geoffrey, and he flew straight away into a rage, and stormed at her about everything and anything. He was like that, you know."

  "It upset your sister?"

  "Yes, thoroughly. I put her back to bed, because she was too weepy to come down to breakfast'

  "She didn't seem to be resentful?"

  "Lord, no! Just over at the knees."

  "I see. And what about Guest?"

  "Well, if you must know," replied Dinah, "he's the faithful swain. Inarticulate, and a bit of a poop. He might easily have knocked Arthur's teeth out, but somehow I don't see him stabbing him in the back."

  "Forgive me, Miss Fawcett, but was there never any talk of divorce between your sister and Sir Arthur?"

  "On account of Stephen? No, never. There ought to have been, but Fay would never face the scandal. I am absolutely convinced, Mr. Harding, that nothing would induce Fay to take any action that would lead to — well, this sort of unpleasantness."

  He met her look. "Quite, Miss Fawcett. Tell me, did you see the cut on Guest's wrist yesterday?"

  "No, of course I didn't. Camilla and Fay yapped at him to show it them, but naturally he wouldn't do any such thing. He's frightfully he-mannish, is Stephen. Loathes a fuss."

  "And the Hallidays?"

  "She's a gold-digger, and he's nervy and a bit jealous. Dotes on her."

  "Mrs. Twining?"

  "Mrs. Twining?" repeated Dinah. "What do you want to know about her?"

  "Anything you can tell me," said Harding.

  "I don't think I can. I hardly know her. She's an old friend of Arthur's, and she came to live here about a year after he did. I've always imagined that she could tell some pretty ripe tales about him if she wanted to because he was much more polite to her than to anyone else."

  "Do you know why it was she who went to fetch the General on to the terrace?"

  "Yes, of course I do. She came specially to talk to him about Geoffrey, because she was about the only person he'd listen to. That's what makes me think he was a bit afraid of her."

  "Is there a Mr. Twining?"

  "Colonel. He's dead."

  "I see. Tell me what happened when she went to the General's study. How long was she gone?"

  Dinah pondered this. "I'm not sure. We were all talking. I should think, about five minutes, or even a little longer."

  "And when she came back-was she very much upset:'

  "Yes, I think she was. In fact, I'm certain she was. She's awfully self-controlled, and doesn't give away much but she looked pretty queer. I'm not surprised: she actually touched Arthur before she realised he was dead, and her glove was all over blood. Luckily she's strong-minded enough not to have fainted on the spot."

  Harding nodded rather absently. He did not say anything for a minute or two, and Miss Fawcett. respecting this mood of abstraction, sat and studied him in silence. Aware presently of her clear gaze, he glanced down at her, and smiled. "Has Billington-Smith broken off his engagement to Miss de Silva?" he asked.

  "He says he's had a revulsion of feeling," replied Dinah. "It's all rather trying (though quite humorous), because the mere sight of Lola sends him flying, and she's got a habit of tracking him down and — and wreathing her arms round him, so to speak."

  "His passion for the lady seems to have been somewhat transient," remarked Harding dryly.

  "Well, she turned him down first, you know," Dinah pointed out.

  "So she did," agreed Harding and stood up.

  "Inquisition over?" inquired Miss Fawcett.

  "The inquisition is over for today," said Harding.

  "I see!" said Miss Fawcett sapiently. "Thumbscrews not yet arrived." She rose, and stood facing him. "I wish the murderer hadn't got to be discovered, but I quite see that he must be, and I hope you find him quickly. Because the sort of atmosphere of suspicion and suspense we're living in now is utterly unnerving. Moreover, the sooner we get the house cleared of all these ill-assorted visitors, the better it will be for my sister. By the way, am I under lock and key too, or can I leave the place?"

  There was a slight pause. "I've no shadow of right to keep you here, Miss Fawcett," said Harding. "At the same time I wish very much that you would stay."

  "Oh, I'm going to! All I meant was, can I go into Ralton to do the shopping, and pay the bills?"

  "Of course you can. Go anywhere you like," said Harding.

  "Thanks very much. And one other thing, Mr. Harding: if you want anything at any time — to be shown round, or to ask any question — do you think you could send for me, and not my sister? She's dreadfully shattered by all this, and I want to keep her out of it as much as I can."

  "I will," promised Harding. "But I shall want both your sister and her stepson to be present tomorrow when the safe is opened. Do you know what train the General's solicitor is coming by?"

  "Do you mean to say Geoffrey didn't tell you that" demanded Miss Fawcett "Really, he is the most unreliable ass I know! The solicitor arrives at ten-fifty at Ralton Station. His name is Tremlowe. I'll see Fay and Geoffrey are on th
e spot when you're ready for them. Do you want to see anyone else now?"

  "No, I'm going to relieve you of my presence for today, Miss Fawcett. I shall be back in the morning."

  "Au revoir, then," said Dinah, holding out her hand. The Sergeant, a forgotten spectator, watched the handshake with dawning suspicion. Inspector Harding closed the door behind Miss Fawcett, and stood for an instant, a little smile lurking at the back of his eyes. The Sergeant, his suspicion growing, said with some severity "A very pleasant-spoken lady, sir. Very helpful."

  Harding looked up quickly, and a tinge of colour stole into his face. "I thought she might be," he said, walking back to the table and collecting his papers into a bundle.

  "Yes, sir," said the Sergeant. "What I should call a nice looking young lady too."

  "Quite," said Inspector Harding casually.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Inspector Harding, driving his car back to Ralton, was rather silent, and frowned at the road ahead of him. The Sergeant ventured presently to ask him what he meant to do next. "Will you be wanting me, sir?"

  "No, I don't think so, Sergeant. I want to tabulate all these statements, and think the thing out a bit. And I want also to see Mrs. Chudleigh. But you needn't come with me there if you'll explain just where the Vicarage is."

  "You want to see Mrs. Chudleigh, sir?"

  "Of course I want to see her. Where does she live?"

  "At Lyndhurst," replied the Sergeant. A slow grin spread over his solemn countenance. "I'm bound to say, sir, I hadn't thought of her, but I wouldn't put it above her and no more would most of them who knows her. She's a tartar, that's what she is."

  "What I want to see Mrs. Chudleigh about," explained Harding patiently, "is to find out from her whether she heard or saw anyone in the study yesterday when she passed that side window."

  "Yes, sir. It was only my little joke," said the Sergeant, abashed.

  When Harding arrived at the Crown, having dropped the Sergeant at the police station, it was close on seven o'clock. He went straight into the dining-room, and had dinner. With the exception of one old gentleman seated at the far end of the room, he was the only diner at that early hour, and was able in the vault-like silence to study his notes while he ate. The knowledge of his identity had reached every one in the hotel by this time, in that mysterious manner peculiar to small country towns, and the waiter hovered about him with respectful assiduity while various other members of the staff, including two awe-struck chambermaids, peeped at him through the service-door. As he remained quite unconscious of the interest he was creating, this did not discompose him in the least. He continued to study his notes, and ordered black coffee, and an old brandy. Shortly after this the Chief Constable looked into the dining-room, and seeing Harding, came over, and sat down at his table. This was very thrilling, and the chef, who had till then taken very little interest in the Inspector, was moved to peep into the dining-room also.

  Major Grierson, who was wearing evening-dress under a light overcoat, explained that he was on his way to a dinner-party in the immediate vicinity, and had just dropped in to have a word with Harding.

  "Delighted, sir," said Harding, and beckoned to the waiter, who came up with great alacrity.

  The conversation between the detective from London and the Chief Constable was, however, somewhat disappointing.

  "What will you have, sir? Martini? Sherry?"

  "Thank you, thank you, I think a sherry — a dry sherry. Dear me, Harding, how it — er — takes one back! Fancy running across you again like this! Most er — rxtraordinary!"

  When the waiter returned with a glass of sherry for the Chief Constable the conversation was still more dispiriting. All he had to report to the chambermaids, the house porter, and the chef, was that the detective and the Major seemed to know one another very well, and were swopping yarns about the war.

  But when he was out of earshot the conversation took a swift turn. The Chief Constable, having enjoyed a reminiscent chuckle over what had happened in a certain billet behind the lines, stopped laughing, and said in a low voice: "Well, well, you must — er — come and dine with me, Harding. But about this business: you've been up to the Grange?"

  "Yes, I've been there, but I haven't reached any conclusions yet," said Harding.

  "Naturally not. Quite. I didn't expect it, my dear fellow. You consider it — er — a difficult case?"

  "I do indeed, sir. There are too many people mixed up in it."

  "My view — er—exactly! You haven't — er — discussed it yet with the Superintendent?"

  "Not yet, but I will tomorrow morning," promised Harding.

  "Yes, yes, I was sure I could — er — rely on you," said the Major, swallowing the last of his sherry. "Must try not to tread on — er — corns!" With which he took his leave, and bustled out to join his wife in the car outside.

  Inspector Harding drove up to Lyndhurst Vicarage at half past eight, and sent in his card. The parlour-maid, reading it, stepped back from him as from a coiled cobra and, leaving him standing in the hall, disappeared into a room at the back of the house. She came back in a few minutes, and intimated that he was to step this way, if you please.

  He passed unannounced into the room she had come from, and found himself in a fair-sized apartment crowded with china cabinets, incidental chairs, smell tables, knick-knacks, and hassocks. The walls were papered in a design of white and silver stripes, and hung with a heterogeneous collection of paintings, photographs, and Crown-Derby plates. A tapestry fire-screen was set before the empty grate, and the long windows were obscured by very stiffly starched white muslin curtains, and flanked on either side by faded blue brocade ones, looped back with thick silken cords. The room was lit by a central light in an alabaster bowl, and had beside, a standard lamp with a pink silk shade behind the sofa.

  Mrs. Chudleigh, in a nondescript garment known to her as 'semi-evening dress', was seated bolt upright on the sofa with her work-basket beside her, and a piece of embroidery in her hand. The Vicar, as Harding entered the room, got up from a deep arm-chair on the oppossite of the fireplace. He held Harding's card between his fingers, and said in a vague way: 'Er — good evening, Inspector. Pray come in. You find us all unprepared for visitors, I fear." With a slight gesture and an apologetic smile he indicated his carpet slippers, and his wife's needlework.

  Harding came forward. "I hope I haven't come at an inconvenient hour, sir? My time is rather limited, you know, and I wanted to be sure of finding Mrs. Chudleigh at home."

  Mrs. Chudleigh removed the steel-rimmed spectacles she wore for working or reading, and replaced them by her pincenez. "I must say, it is a very odd hour to come," she said. "However, please don't apologise! I am quite at liberty, though what you can have to say to me I am entirely at a loss to discover." She broke off to admonish her husband, who had placed one of the incidental chairs for Harding. "Not that one, Hilary: you know one of the legs is broken."

  "Ah, tut, tut! My memory again!" said the Vicar ruefully. He returned the chair to its place, and pulled forward another. "I trust we have no broken legs here. Sit down, Inspector. It was my wife, I think, you wanted to see?"

  "Thank you. Yes, I have something I want to ask Mrs. Chudleigh," said Harding, seating himself. "I'm working, as I expect you've guessed, on the case up at the Grange."

  The Vicar shook his head. "Shocking, shocking! A terrible affair! What a judgment! Dreadful, dreadful!"

  Mrs. Chudleigh stuck her needle into her work, drew off her thimble, and executed a profound shudder. "I'm sure I have no desire to speak of it," she said. "Either my husband or I would have been willing and glad to have visited Lady Billington-Smith in her hour of trouble, but since she apparently feels no need of spiritual consolation I have nothing further to say. I have no doubt that a great many vulgarly inquisitive people will flock to the inquest, which I suppose will be held any day now, but I for one should not dream of forcing my way in."

  "Quite, Emmy, my dear, quite! Naturally y
ou would not wish to be present," said the Vicar gently. "That goes without saying. But I think the Inspector wants to ask you some questions."

  Mrs. Chudleigh regarded Harding with unveiled hostility. "I do not know how I can be expected to tell you," she said. "No one has told me anything about it, I can assure you. The only person I have been permitted to speak to is Miss Fawcett. I'm sure I don't wish to call her secretive, but really I must confess I found her reticence most overdone and foolish."

  "Emmy, dear!" said the Vicar again, still more gently.

  She bridled a little, but subsided. Harding took swill advantage of the lull. "I only want to ask you a few questions about your own movements yesterday morning, Mrs. Chudleigh. Can you remember just when you arrived at the Grange?"

  "Oh, if that is all — ! I rang the front-door bell at twenty minutes past twelve precisely, for I looked at my watch. fearing it might be later. I may say I had ample opportunity for doing so since the butler kept me waiting on the doorstep longer than I should permit any servant of mine to do."

  "And when he admitted you, did he take you straight out on to the terrace?"

  "Certainly. Since Lady Billington-Smith was there, I do not know where else he would have taken me."

  "How long did you remain on the terrace, Mrs. Chudleigh?"

  "I remained until half past twelve."

  "And you left by way of the path leading round the side of the house to the drive?"

  "Yes. I told Lady Billington-Smith there was no need for her to disturb herself on my account. She seemed to me to be far from well, which I am sure was not to be wondered at. Though I shall always consider that she brought it all on herself, marrying that man."

  "Emmy, we must not speak ill of the dead," said the Vicar.

  "No, Hilary, but truth is truth, and it would be clear hypocrisy to pretend that the General was anything but a rude, overbearing, and ill-natured person. No doubtt he had his good qualities; I can only say that they were hidden from me. He treated Lady Billington-Smith abominably — not that I have any sympathy to waste on her, for I have always considered such a marriage, between a man of his age and a girl of hers, as little short of disgusting — and his behaviour to his son — such a delicate boy, too! — was positively brutal!"