“Was there a divorce?”
“No. I know that, because I used to hear my father talking about the folly of it—the folly of not having a divorce, I mean. But Uncle Morris—well, he wouldn’t. Whether because he wanted her back, or just wanted to make himself disobliging, I don’t know. It’s such ancient history, you see. It must be—oh, twenty years or more ago!”
“I see,” said John slowly. “Twenty years! It sounds like a lifetime. But still—”
Blodwen looked at him doubtfully.
“You can’t be thinking there’s any connection between that old affair and this.”
“No. But it’s as well to know all one can, even about things that happened twenty years ago. One never knows where an investigation like this will lead one. And the more past history one knows, the less likely one is to be led astray. You don’t know, I suppose, whether your uncle still kept in touch with his wife?”
Blodwen laughed.
“No. I’ve never heard him mention her name. All I know is from my father, who didn’t admire the lady and thought her departure a good riddance. I don’t think even my father knew how Uncle Morris felt about it. Uncle Morris isn’t a man to talk about his private affairs to anyone.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Let me see. It was the year I went to school in Germany. I was sixteen that year. So it’s just twenty years ago.”
“You don’t remember her name?”
“Yes, I do! That’s the one thing I remember clearly, because it was a queer name, and appealed to my school-girl imagination. Clytie Meadows. Aunt Clytie. I only saw her once, and don’t remember much about her. Except that she used a marvellous scent, and had a general air about her of not wanting to be bothered with schoolgirls.”
“And the name of the man she ran away with?”
“I can’t tell you. I suppose I heard it at the time, but it wouldn’t have conveyed much to me. Why, Mr. Christmas, this was twenty years ago! Cousin Jim may know. Is there any other family scandal I can rake up for your benefit? No, I don’t think so. My Aunt Clytie is the only blot on the family scutcheon within my memory. Until—oh, Mr. Christmas! What a nightmare this is! Is it true? I keep asking myself: is it true? And for quite minutes at a time I can think it isn’t, and Uncle Morris is in the library, or out on the farm. Though all the time it’s hanging there in the background, something threatening that one’s half forgotten! And then it rushes forward, and one can’t deceive oneself! It is true! It is! It—”
She bit her lip and turned aside, and suddenly sat down on the steps of the Dutch garden and fondled her setter’s long silky ears. When she looked round again after a moment or two, her plain aquiline face wore its usual serene, slightly ironical expression.
“Give me a cigarette, and a match. By the way, that young cousin of mine made a nice mess of it, trying to burn Uncle Morris’s letter in full view of the constabulary. Young idiot! As if he couldn’t have waited till he got home! And as if there was anything in the letter to feel so guilty about! Really, I don’t understand Felix! I thought he had more backbone.”
“My own impression is—” began John, and stopped, wondering whether he had better not, after all, keep his impression to himself.
“Well?” asked Blodwen, and something cool and intelligent in her grey eyes constrained him to go on.
“Well,” said John, sitting down on the top step, and stroking the silky brown muzzle which was laid in an investigatory fashion on his knee, “I think that young Felix is, or at any rate was, afraid that his father really had—”
He paused, absurdly at a loss for a delicate way of putting it.
Miss Price, to his relief, showed no sign of indignation or even astonishment.
“Murdered Charles? Yes, it had occurred to me that Felix thought so. Young idiot, again. But of course he’s been away a lot since he grew up. He doesn’t really know Uncle Morris well, not so well as I know him. And they rather exasperate one another. They’re so alike in some ways, and so different in others, that they don’t see one another at all clearly. But if Felix thinks so, there’s all the more reason for him to pull his socks up. That’s just one of the differences between him and Uncle Morris. Just when it’s most necessary for him to stiffen up—he collapses. I’m very fond of Felix. But sometimes I do wish he had a little more grit. It’s tiresome when one likes a person and can’t admire him. It exasperates one.”
“I say, you are rather a—well, a Roman cousin, aren’t you, Miss Price?”
“Hard on Felix, you mean? Hard altogether, perhaps? Yes, I am,” agreed Blodwen tranquilly. She added in a low voice: “But not so hard that I’ll be able to bear to live if—if—”
“Then you—”
“Don’t share Felix’s fears? No, of course not. Uncle Morris might have done it, in a temper. But he says he didn’t.”
“But—”
“Oh, yes, I know. But a thousand things in his manner and his voice tell me that he didn’t, besides his words. People can’t lie to those who know them, about such a matter. Not simple people like Uncle Morris, anyhow. I suppose a Machiavelli can. But then nobody can claim to know a Machiavelli.”
“Oh, surely they may claim! A successful Machiavelli would never label himself with a big M.”
Blodwen rose to her feet, tumbling one of her lazy dogs down the steps on to the grass, where he picked himself up leisurely and looked reproachful. She admitted and dismissed this subtlety with a perfunctory smile.
“Isn’t there anything we can do? If only I could do something! But to go on like this, to try to live as if nothing had happened! It’s impossible! Leave everything to me—that’s what Mr. Penrose says. But I don’t want to leave everything to him! And he’s a lawyer, one can’t really tell what he thinks! He’s got caution on the brain. And while we waste time here, the real murderer is getting farther and farther away!”
She threw her cigarette down among the roses with a nervous gesture.
“Well,” said John briskly, “to begin with, let’s go and look at the drawer in the library where the revolver used to be. And while we’re looking at it you can tell me: who had access to this revolver besides your uncle?”
“My dear Mr. Christmas!” said Blodwen with a despairing laugh, as she led the way into the large, cool hall, so shadowy and grateful after the heat of the sun. “I don’t think that question will help us much! Everybody had access to the revolver!”
They entered the long library, rich and dark with its loaded shelves, and Blodwen closed the door.
“At least,” she amended, “everybody in the house.”
“That is to say?”
“Uncle Morris. Felix. Myself. Charles himself. Cousin Jim. Any of the servants. And any visitor who may have entered the library since the revolver was last seen.”
John smiled.
“It would narrow the inquiry down a little if we could find out when the revolver was last seen safely in its drawer. Perhaps the servant who usually cleans the room would know.”
“Mrs. Maur would know,” said Blodwen, “if anybody would. She dusts this room herself, because my father used to be so fussy about having everything left in its usual place. But I don’t suppose she’s opened any of the drawers since spring-cleaning. . . Oh, Waters, will you ask Mrs. Maur to come here, please?”
The man-servant who had appeared in answer to Blodwen’s ring bowed and withdrew. John noticed that as he turned to go he cast a quick, curious glance at the end drawer of a row of drawers built in under the massive book-cases which lined one wall of the room. As the door closed John asked quickly:
“Which is the drawer? That end one?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“That chap Waters knows,” observed John thoughtfully. “Though there may be nothing in that. The affair’s been pretty thoroughly discussed in the servants’ hall, no doubt. Do you know anything about the man? Has he been here long?”
“About three months, I believe. He’s quite
a satisfactory servant, I think, though Mrs. Maur did mention to me some weeks ago that he was neglecting his work and making one of the housemaids neglect hers. Love’s young dream, I suppose. But I’ve heard no complaints about him since. And after all, one must be reasonable. Oh, Mrs. Maur, Mr. Christmas wants to ask you some questions about this drawer.”
A short, elderly woman with a rather stern but comely face had quietly entered the room and stood with her hands crossed over her black silk apron, awaiting orders. An excellent housekeeper, no doubt, thought John, noting her respectful yet steady glance, her submissive but dignified pose. Faithful, energetic, intelligent and conservative; something a little inhuman, perhaps, in the large, regular features and close-shut lips; a good but not an endearing face; not much toleration there for love’s young dream. She waited for the questions. It was not for her to volunteer statements.
“Did you know, Mrs. Maur, that Sir Morris kept a revolver in one of these drawers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which one?”
“That one, sir.”
“Can you tell me when you last saw it there?”
“Yes, sir. It was on the eleventh of August, sir, nearly three weeks ago.” As if she felt that this accuracy needed some explanation, the old woman added: “When I heard that the revolver had been mentioned at the inquest, I remembered I’d seen it in the drawer not long ago. And I’ve been able to call to mind, sir, just when it was.”
“Good. Only three weeks ago. Did you move the revolver?”
“No, sir. It was like this. Sir Charles wanted some cartridges for his sporting gun and asked me where they was, he having used what he had and wishing to obtain some more, sir. I knew as I had seen some revolver bullets in this drawer, sir, when I turned out the room, and thought there might possibly be some of the kind he wanted here too, sir. So I came down and had a look. The revolver was lying in the drawer then, sir, at about half-past eleven on the morning of August the eleventh, sir.”
“Good. That certainly narrows things down a bit, doesn’t it, Miss Price? Do you know, Mrs. Maur, whether any of the footmen or housemaids knew the revolver was here?”
“That I couldn’t say, sir,” responded the little woman primly. “I can only say as they would have no business to know. But leave drawers unlocked, and nobody can say they haven’t been opened by curious folks as had no business to open them, sir.”
“Quite. Now, Mrs. Maur, can you tell me whether any visitors from outside have been in this room since August the eleventh? Take your time and think it over.” There was a pause, while the old woman looked thoughtfully about the room, as if expecting to see the wraiths of its visitors lined up against its walls.
“We haven’t had many visitors in these last weeks, sir, owing to Miss Blodwen having been away. There was many come to call on Sir Charles when he first come, but mostly before the date we’re speaking of. And they would all have been shown in the drawing-room. Not many visitors ever come to this room. Mr. Morris was like poor Sir Evan in not wanting anything disturbed. The doctor—Dr. Browning, that is, sir—was here one day about three weeks ago, just before he went to London, Mr. Morris being a bit poorly. He came in here to see Mr.—Sir Morris, for I showed him in here myself, but when it was exactly I couldn’t say. I should say it was about then, perhaps the twelfth or thirteenth. Yes, it was the thirteenth, I remember, because it was the day before the fête at Penlow, and the doctor asked me was I going, and said he was going to look after the coco-nut shy. Apart from the doctor, I can only call to mind the policemen who came three days ago to see Sir Morris, and a lady who called last Saturday when Sir Morris was out.”
“Ah!” said John, who had noted the tone of faint but definite disapproval which had crept into the housekeeper’s voice. “A lady last Saturday, eh?”
“Yes. August the twenty-fifth, sir.”
“Two days before the murder. Who was this lady?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. She give no name. She came at about half-past three in the afternoon. The front door was open, and I happened to be passing through the hall as she come up the terrace, and she asked for Mr. Morris Price. I wasn’t sure if Mr. Morris was in or not, but I asked her to come through to the little drawing-room. ‘Oh, it’s pleasant out here in the sun,’ she says. ‘I’ll take this deck-chair, and wait here.’ So I went to ascertain. When I come back, the lady’s scarf is lying over the deck-chair, but no lady. So I walked round the terrace, thinking she might have stepped away to look at the roses, and I met her coming out through the windows of the library, sir.”
“Ah! Go on.”
“She came out smiling, and I could see when the sunlight fell on her face as she was an older lady than I had took her for. I kept my thoughts to myself and I said: ‘Mr. Price is out, madam, and will not be at home till the evening.’ ‘Ah well!’ she said. ‘It doesn’t signify. I thought he might be out, and I’ve left him a note,’ and she laughs. ‘Will you tell him as there’s a note on his desk?’ And she took up her scarf and went. But before she went, just as she was turning to go, she turned back again and she said: ‘What’s the new baronet like?’”
The housekeeper’s pause here was instinct with outraged propriety.
“I answered: ‘Sir Charles is also out, madam.’ And she laughed again, and she said:‘Well, this is a decent little place he’s come into. It ought to have a mistress.’ And off she went, leaving me wondering whether I oughtn’t to go after her and ask what she’d been doing in the library. But although she was a strange lady, she was a lady, sir, by her looks and the way she spoke, though what she said was queer. So I told Mr. Morris when he come back. Not all she’d said, but just that she’d been in the library and written a note. He said nothing, but he didn’t look pleased, and he asked no questions.”
“Can you describe this lady?”
Mrs. Maur looked a little dubious.
“Well, I don’t know that I can, sir, not to help much. She was a tallish lady that looked about thirty-five in the shadow and fifty in the sun. Dressed in black, with one of these small hats with a little lace veil over her eyes. Dark eyes, she had, grey, with black eyelashes, and long ear-rings and—and—” The old woman hesitated, at a loss for words to describe some peculiar quality of the visitor. She said slowly at last:
“She had a way with her as if she meant to have her way, and didn’t care how things looked. And a clear, loud voice. That’s all,” added Mrs. Maur, after a pause to ransack the corners of her memory. She went on, anxious to leave no false impression: “When I say she looked thirty-five in the shadow, that’s only to show the tall, well-set-up, smart lady that she was, sir. She’ll never see forty again. Nor fifty, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Did she come on foot, this lady?”
“No, sir. She came on a bicycle. I saw her walk a little way down the drive and then take to a bicycle she’d left standing against the railings. It give me quite a surprise, for by her shoes and dress and that she looked more as if she had come in a car. And she rode off as quick and easy as anything, as if she was a girl and used to exercise and that.”
John smiled and glanced at Blodwen, who had been listening with a puzzled air to this recital.
“We ought to be able to find out who this person was,” she now said eagerly. “Why, of course Uncle Morris must know who she was, if she left a note for him!”
“Your Uncle Morris isn’t exactly a mine of information, though, is he?” murmured John. “However, we ought to be able to discover the lady’s identity without troubling him. It isn’t difficult to make a guess at it.”
“Why!” exclaimed Blodwen. “But I haven’t the slightest idea—” She broke off abruptly, with a sudden surmise. “Why, do you think? Never mind now. Is there anything else we can ask Mrs. Maur?”
“I should like to ask, if I may, whether the housemaid, Lethe’s daughter, is still working here?”
Mrs. Maur glanced at Blodwen, as if to seek her approval before she touched on a subject so
painful to the family. Blodwen gave a faint smile and nod, and the old woman answered immediately:
“No, sir. She left directly after the trouble between Sir Charles and Letbe. The trouble was about her, of course. You’ll have heard that, sir.”
“Yes. Has she taken a new situation, do you know?”
“No, sir. She’s at home, with her father and mother. She’s to be married to Waters, the second footman here, and they’ve got a situation in London to go to, where a married couple is wanted.”
“Oh, then Waters is leaving, is he?”
“He gave in his notice at the time Ellie Letbe left, sir.”
“Is he a good servant?”
“Fairly satisfactory, sir. But it isn’t satisfactory when two of the servants gets engaged, sir. It doesn’t answer, I find.”
“Must happen fairly often, I should think.”
“We usually try to engage men-servants with previous attachments, sir, preferably local ones. We find it answers better.”
“I see,” said John, smiling. “And your maids—do you prefer them with previous local attachments, too?”
“No, sir,” answered Mrs. Maur with perfect gravity. We prefer our maids unattached. We prefer our maids to be without matrimonial tendencies, sir!”
“Dear me, Mrs. Maur! Are there any such?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Some young women take naturally to a single life, though there aren’t very many of them.” Her tone added: “Unfortunately.” She went on rather apologetically, as if to excuse an error of judgment: “I should never have engaged Ellie Letbe if it hadn’t been for her father, sir. I could see at a glance as she was one of the marrying kind. They never answer for long.”
“Cold-blooded old person, isn’t she?” remarked Blodwen with a faint smile when Mrs. Maur had left the room. “But the housekeeper par excellence.”
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