Envious Casca ih-2

by Джорджетт Хейер

The Inspector fully appreciated the fine delivery of these lines, but he was shrewd enough to realise that with the slightest encouragement Joseph would turn a police investigation into a drama centred about his own ebullient personality, and he took a firm line at once, saying prosaically: "Well, that's very kind of you, sir, I'm sure. But it's no use us arguing about who did it, or who you don't think could have done it. All I want you to do, if you'll be so good, is to cast your mind back to what happened when you and your nephew entered Mr. Herriard's room after the murder had been committed."

  Joseph shuddered, and covered his eyes with his hand. "No, no, I cannot!"

  "Well, you can have a try, can't you, sir?" said Hemingway, as one humouring a child. "After all, it only happened yesterday."

  Joseph let his hand fall. "Only - yesterday! Is it possible? Yet it seems as though a lifetime had passed between then and now!"

  "You can take it from me that it hasn't," said Hemingway, somewhat tartly. "Now, when you went upstairs to call your brother down to dinner, you found his valet outside the room, didn't you?"

  "Yes. It was he who gave me the first premonition that something was wrong. He told me that he could get no answer to his knocking, that the door was locked. I remember that so distinctly - so appallingly distinctly!"

  "And what did you do then?"

  Joseph sat down on a chair, and rested one elbow on the table. "What did I do? I tried the door, I called to my brother. There was no answer. I was alarmed. Oh, I had no suspicion of the dreadful truth! I thought he had been taken ill, fainted, perhaps. I called to Stephen."

  "Why did you want him particularly, sir?"

  Joseph made one of his little vague gestures. "I don't know. Instinctively one wishes for support. I knew too that my strength would not avail to break down the door. He and Ford burst open the lock, and I saw my poor brother, lying on the floor, as though asleep."

  "What happened next, sir?"

  "How can I tell you?"Joseph demanded. "One's heart stood still! The world span round. I suppose one knew then, intuitively, that the worst had happened. Yet one clutched at a frail thread of hope!"

  "And what about Mr. Stephen, sir? Did he clutch at it too?" asked Hemingway, unimpressed.

  "I think he must have. I recall that he sent Ford at once for some brandy. But an instant later he had realised the awful truth. As I dropped to my knees beside my brother's body, he said: "He's dead."'

  "It didn't take him long to discover that, did it?"

  "I think his instinct must have told him. I could not at first believe it! I told Stephen to fetch a mirror. I would not believe it. But Stephen was right. Only he thought that Nat had had a stroke. He said so at once, and for a few moments I was mercifully permitted to think so too."

  "And then?"

  "Let me think!" Joseph begged, pressing his fingers to his temples. "It was all a nightmare. It seemed - it still seems - unreal, fantastic! Ford came back with the brandy. Stephen took it from him, sent him away to ring up the doctor."

  "Oh!" said Hemingway. "So Ford was hardly in the room at all, what with one thing and another?"

  "No. There was nothing he could do. While he was still in the room I had made my ghastly discovery. I was glad to hear Stephen telling him to leave us. At that moment I could not bear that a stranger should be present."

  "What discovery was this, sir?"

  "I found that there was blood upon my hand!" said Joseph, in shuddering accents. "Blood from my brother's coat, where I had touched it! Then, and then only, I saw the little rent, and knew that Nat had been done to death!"

  The Inspector, quite carried away by all this, murmured, "Foully done to death," before he could stop himself, and then had to cough, to smother his own words. Fortunately, Joseph did not seem to have heard him. Lost in admiration of his own performance, thought Hemingway, wondering how a man who was undoubtedly unnerved could yet dramatise his emotions with such morbid relish.

  "Very upsetting for you, sir," he said. "I'm sure I don't want to make you dwell on it more than I need, but I do want to know what happened when Ford had gone off to ring up the doctor. When Inspector Colwall came here he found the doors locked, and all the windows shut."

  "Yes, that's what makes it so inexplicable!" said Joseph.

  "Did you yourself see that the windows were shut, sir?"

  "No, but my nephew did. I was too overcome! It had not even occurred to me that we ought to look at the windows. But my nephew was a tower of strength! He thought of everything, just as one had always felt sure he would, in an emergency!

  "He looked at the windows, did he, sir?"

  "Yes, I'm sure he did. I seem to remember that he walked over to them, putting back the curtains. Ah yes! and he asked me if I realised that the doors were both locked, and all the windows shut!"

  "You didn't look at the windows yourself, sir?"

  "No, why should I? It was enough that one of us had seen that they were shut. I didn't care: I think I was half stunned!"

  "Then I take it that it wasn't you who ascertained that the bathroom door also was locked?"

  "Stephen saw to everything," Joseph said. "I don't know where I should have been without him!"

  The Inspector, who was fast coming to the conclusion that no one at the Manor, including himself, would be in the present predicament but for the activities of Mr. Stephen Herriard, agreed heartily, and said that he would not trouble Joseph any further. Then he went off to find Ford.

  Ford, twice questioned by the police already, was nervous, and inclined to be sullen, but when he was asked if he had tried the bathroom door in his efforts to get into his master's room on the previous evening, he replied readily that he had, and that it had been locked. Paula, interrupted in the middle of a discussion with Roydon on the advisability of rewriting a part of the second act of Wormwood, said impatiently that of course she had not tried the bathroom door, and turned her shoulder to the Inspector. He withdrew, and was fortunate enough to encounter Valerie, crossing the hall towards the staircase. She gave a start on seeing him, and eyed him with mingled trepidation and suspicion.

  "You're just the person I was waiting to see, miss," said Hemingway pleasantly.

  "It's no use: I don't know anything about it!" Valerie assured him.

  "No, I don't suppose you do," he replied, surprising her exactly as he had meant to. "It isn't likely a young lady like you would be mixed up in a murder."

  She gave an audible sigh of relief, but still watched him suspiciously. Correctly divining that she would not object to familiarity, if it were judiciously mixed with flattery, he said: "If you don't mind my saying so, miss, it's a bit of a surprise to me to find anyone like you here."

  She responded instinctively. "I don't know what you mean! Do you think I'm so extraordinary?"

  "Well, it isn't every day of the week that I meet a beautiful young lady, all in the way of business," said the Inspector unblushingly.

  She giggled. "Good gracious, I didn't know that policemen paid one compliments!"

  "They don't often get the chance," answered Hemingway. "You're engaged to be married to Mr. Stephen Herriard, aren't you, miss?"

  This brought a cloud to her brow. "Yes, in a way I suppose I am," she admitted.

  "You don't sound very sure about it!" he said, cocking an intelligent eyebrow.

  "Oh, I don't know! Only I never thought a thing like this would happen. It sort of changes everything. Besides, I utterly loathe this house, and Stephen adores it."

  "Ah, he's got a taste for antiques, I daresay!" said Hemingway, very much on the alert.

  "Well, I think it's all completely deathly, and I simply won't be buried alive here."

  "I wouldn't take on about that, if I were you, miss. I expect Mr. Stephen will be only too glad to live wherever you want."

  She opened her eyes at him. "Stephen? Oh gosh, no! He's the most foully obstinate person I've ever met! You simply can't move him once he's made up his mind."

  "I can see you've
been having a pretty uncomfortable time," said Hemingway sympathetically.

  Valerie, already smarting from the sense of her own wrongs, and further aggrieved by her parent's attitude of bracing common sense, was only too glad to have found someone to whom she could unburden herself. She drew nearer to the Inspector, saying: "Well, I have. I mean, I'm one of those frightfully highly-strung people. I just can't help it!"

  The Inspector now had a certain cue, and responded instantly to it. "I could see at a glance that you were a mass of nerves," he said brazenly.

  "That's just it!" said Valerie, immensely gratified. "Only none of these people realise it, or care a damn about anyone but themselves. Except Uncle Joe: he's nice; and I rather like Willoughby Roydon too. But the rest have been simply foul to me."

  Jealous, I wouldn't wonder," nodded Hemingway.

  She laughed, and patted her curls. "Well, I can't imagine why they should be! Besides, Stephen's as bad as the others. Worse if anything!"

  "Perhaps he's jealous too, in a different way. I know I would be."

  "Oh, Stephen's not in the least like that!" she said, brushing the suggestion aside. "He doesn't care what I do. No, honestly he doesn't! In fact, he doesn't behave as though he cared for me a bit, in spite of having brought me down here to get to know his uncle. Of course, I oughtn't to be saying this to you," she added, with a belated recollection of their respective positions.

  "You don't want to worry about what you say to me," said the Inspector. "I daresay it's a relief to be able to get it off your chest. I can see you've been through a lot."

  "I must say, I think you're frightfully decent!" she said. "It's been sheer hell ever since Mr. Herriard was killed; and that other Inspector was too brutal for words! - I mean, absolute Third Degree! All about Stephen's filthy cigarette-case!"

  "I'm surprised at Inspector Colwall!" said Hemingway truthfully. "What did you happen to do with the case, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "I didn't do anything with it. I mean, I simply took a cigarette out of it, and put the case down on the table in the drawing-room, and never thought of it again until all this loathsome fuss started. Only Mathilda Clare - who's quite the ugliest woman I've ever laid eyes on - practically accused me of having had the case all the time. Of course, she was simply out to protect Stephen, Willoughby says. Because Mr. Mottisfont said, who was likely to pick up the case except Stephen himself? which is perfectly true, of course. And if you ask me, Mathilda Clare deliberately tried to throw the blame on to me because she knew Mr. Herriard didn't like me!"

  "Now that's a thing I can't believe!" said the Inspector gallantly.

  "No; but he didn't, all the same. In fact, that's why I came here. It was my mother's idea, actually, that I should have a chance to get to know Mr. Herriard. Personally I think he was a woman-hater."

  "If he didn't like you, he must have been. Didn't he want his nephew to marry you?"

  "Well, no, as a matter of fact he didn't. Only I feel sure I could have got round him, if only Stephen hadn't made everything worse by annoying him over something or other. Of course, that's just like Stephen! He would! I did try to make him be sensible, because Uncle Joe dropped a word in my ear, but it was no use."

  "What sort of a word?" asked Hemingway.

  "Oh, about Mr. Herriard's will! He didn't actually say everything was left to Stephen, but I sort of gathered it."

  "I see. Did you tell Mr. Stephen?"

  "Yes; but he only laughed, and said he didn't care."

  "He seems to be a difficult kind of young man to have to do with," said Hemingway.

  She sighed. "Yes, and I don't really - Oh well! Only I wish I'd never come here!"

  "I'm sure I don't blame you," said Hemingway, wondering how to get rid of her, now that he had extracted the information he wanted.

  This problem was solved for him by Mathilda, who came into the hall at that moment from the passage leading to the billiard-room. Valerie flushed guiltily, and ran upstairs. Mathilda's cool, shrewd gaze followed her, and returned, enquiringly, to the Inspector's face. "I seem to have scared Miss Dean," she remarked, strolling across the hall towards him. "Was she being indiscreet?"

  He was slightly taken aback, but hid it creditably. "Not at all. We've just been having a pleasant little chat," he replied.

  "I can readily imagine it," Mathilda said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  While these various encounters had been taking place, Mrs. Dean had been usefully employing her time in conversation with Edgar Mottisfont. Like Valerie, he too was suffering from a sense of wrong, and it did not take Mrs. Dean long to induce him to confide in her. The picture he painted of Stephen's character was not flattering, nor did his account of the circumstances leading up to the murder lead her to look hopefully upon the outcome of the police investigation. Really, the case seemed to be much blacker against Stephen than Joseph's story had led her to suppose. She began to look rather thoughtful, and when Mottisfont told her bluntly that if he were Valerie's father he would not let her marry such a fellow, she said vaguely that nothing had been settled, and Valerie was full young to be thinking of marriage.

  It was really a very awkward situation for a conscientious parent to find herself in. No one had informed her of the actual size of Nathaniel Herriard's fortune, but she assumed it to be considerable, and it was a wellknown fact that rich young men were not easily encountered in these hard times. But if Stephen should be convicted of having murdered his uncle, as seemed to be all too probable, the money would never come to him, and Valerie would reap nothing but the obvious disadvantages of having been betrothed to a murderer.

  While Mottisfont talked, and her own lips formed civil replies, her mind was busy over the problem. Not even to herself would she admit that she had jockeyed Stephen into proposing to Valerie, but she had not spent several hours at Lexham without realising that his brief infatuation had worn itself out. She would not put it beyond Stephen, she thought, to jilt Valerie, if he were not first arrested for murder. The trouble was that although Valerie was as pretty as a picture she lacked the intelligence to hold the interest of a man of Stephen's type. Mrs. Dean faced that truth unflinchingly. The child hadn't enough sense to see on which side her bread was buttered. She demanded flattery, and assiduous attentions, and if she did not get them from her betrothed she would be quite capable of throwing him over in a fit of pique.

  When, shortly before teatime, Mrs. Dean went up to her room, she was still thinking deeply; and when she heard her daughter's voice raised outside her door in an exchange of badinage with Roydon, she called her into the room, and asked her if she had been with Stephen all the afternoon.

  "No, and I don't know where he is," said Valerie, studying her reflection in the mirror. "Probably getting off with Mathilda Clare. I've had a simply foul afternoon, doing nothing, except for listening to Paula reciting bits of Willoughby's play, and talking to the Inspector."

  "Talking to the Inspector? What did he want?" demanded Mrs. Dean.

  "Oh, nothing much! I must say, he was a lot more human than I'd expected. I mean, he absolutely understood about the hateful position I'm in."

  "Did he ask you any questions?"

  "Yes, about what I did with Stephen's mouldy cigarette-case, but not a bit like that other one did. He didn't disbelieve every word I said, for instance, or try to bully me."

  Mrs. Dean at once felt that Inspector Hemingway was a man to beware of, and set herself to discover just what information he had extracted from her daughter. By the time she had elicited from Valerie a more or less accurate description of her conversation with him, she was looking more thoughtful than ever. There could be no doubt that the Inspector's suspicions were centred on Stephen, and, taking the terms of Nathaniel Herriard's will and the damning evidence of the cigarette-case into account, there seemed to be little chance of his escaping arrest.

  She was a woman who prided herself on her power of making quick decisions, and she made one now. "You know, darling,"
she said, "I don't feel quite at ease about this engagement of yours."

  Valerie stopped decorating her mouth to stare in astonishment at her parent. "Why, it was you who were so keen on it!" she exclaimed.

  "That was when I thought it was going to be for your happiness," said Mrs. Dean firmly. "All Mother cares about is her little girl's happiness."

  "Well, I must say I've utterly gone off the idea of marrying him," said Valerie. "I mean, money isn't everything, is it? and anyway, I always did like Jerry Tintern better than Stephen, and you can't call him a pauper, can you? Only I don't see how I can get out of it now, do you? It would look rather lousy of me if I broke it off just when he's in a jam, and it would be bound to get about, and people might think I was a foul sort of person."

  This admirable, if inelegantly phrased, piece of reasoning almost led Mrs. Dean to hope that her daughter was acquiring a modicum of sense. She said briskly: "No, pet, it would never do for you to jilt Stephen; but I am sure he will understand if I explain to him that as things are now I cannot allow my baby to be engaged to him. After all, he is a gentleman!"

  "You mean," said Valerie, slowly assimilating the gist of this, "that I can put the blame on to you?"

  "There's no question of blame, my pet," said Mrs. Dean, abandoning hope of dawning intelligence in her first-born. "Merely Mother doesn't feel it right for you to be engaged to a man under a cloud."

  "Oh, Mummy, how too Victorian! I don't mind about that part of it! The point is I don't really like Stephen, and I know he'd be a hellish husband."

  "Now, you know Mother doesn't like to hear that sort of talk!" said Mrs. Dean repressively. "Just give Mother your ring, and leave it to her to do what's best!"

  Valerie drew the ring somewhat regretfully from her finger, remarking with a sigh that she supposed she would have to return it to Stephen. "I rather loathe giving it back," she said. "If he says he'd like me to keep it, can I, Mummy?"

  "One of these days I hope my little girl will have many rings, just as fine as this one," said Mrs. Dean, firmly removing the ring from Valerie's grasp.