"I hardly think so. Mr. Budd stated that his business was urgent, and I was constrained to take his card to Mr. Fletcher. My impression was that Mr. Fletcher was considerably annoyed."
"Do you mean scared?"
"Oh no, Sergeant! Mr. Fletcher spoke of "damned impertinence", but after a moment he told me to show Mr. Budd in, which I did."
"And that was at 9 p.m., or thereabouts? Did you hear any sounds of altercation?"
The butler hesitated. "I wouldn't say altercation, Sergeant. The master's voice was upraised once or twice, but I didn't hear what he said, me being in the dining-room, across the hall, until I withdrew to my pantry."
"You wouldn't say that a quarrel took place between them?"
"No, Sergeant. Mr. Budd did not strike me as a quarrelsome person. In fact, the reverse. I got the impression he was afraid of the master."
"Afraid of him, eh? Was Mr. Fletcher a bad-tempered man?"
"Dear me, no, Sergeant! A very pleasant-spoken gentleman, usually. It was very seldom I saw him putout."
"But was he put-out tonight? By Mr. Budd's call?"
The butler hesitated. "Before that, I fancy, Sergeant. I believe Mr. Fletcher had a - a slight difference with Mr. Neville, just before dinner."
"Mr. Neville? That's the nephew? Does he live here?"
"No. Mr. Neville arrived this afternoon to stay with his uncle for a few days, I understand."
"Was he expected?"
"If he was, I was not apprised of it. I should mention, in fairness to Mr. Neville, that he is - if I may say so - a somewhat eccentric young gentleman. It is by no means an unusual occurrence for him to arrive here without warning."
"And this difference with his uncle: was that usual?"
"I should not like to give a false impression, Sergeant: there wasn't any quarrel, if you understand me. All I know is that when I took sherry and cocktails to the drawing-room before dinner it seemed to me that I had interrupted an altercation. The master looked to be distinctly annoyed, which was a rare thing, in my experience, and I did hear him say, just as I came in, that he wanted to hear no more about it, and Mr. Neville could go to hell."
"Oh! And what about Mr. Neville? Was he annoyed?"
"I shouldn't like to say, Sergeant. Mr. Neville is a peculiar young gentleman, not given to showing what he feels, if he feels anything, which I sometimes doubt."
"Well I do, frequently," said Neville, who had come into the room in time to hear this remark.
The Sergeant, unaccustomed to young Mr. Fletcher's noiseless way of entering rooms, was momentarily startled. Neville smiled in his deprecating fashion, and said softly: 'Good-evening. Isn't it shocking? I do hope you've arrived at something? My aunt would like to see you before you go. Do you know who killed my uncle?"
"It's early days to ask me that, sir," replied the Sergeant guardedly.
"Your words hint at a prolonged period of suspense, which I find peculiarly depressing."
"Very unpleasant for all concerned, sir," agreed the Sergeant. He turned to Simmons. "That'll be all for the present," he said.
Simmons withdrew, and the Sergeant, who had been eyeing Neville with a good deal of curiosity, invited him to sit down. Neville obligingly complied with this request, choosing a deep armchair by the fireplace. The Sergeant said politely: "I'm hoping you may be able to help me, sir. I take it you were pretty intimate with the deceased?"
"Oh no!" said Neville, shocked. "I shouldn't have liked that at all."
"No, sir? Am I to understand you were not on good terms with Mr. Fletcher?"
"But I was. I'm on good terms with everyone. Only I'm not intimate."
"Well, but, what I mean, sir, is -'
"Yes, yes, I know what you mean. Did I know the secrets of my uncle's life? No, Sergeant: I hate secrets, and other people's troubles."
He said this with an air of sweet affability. The Sergeant was a little taken aback, but rallied, and said: "At all events, you knew him fairly well, sir?"
"We won't argue the point," murmured Neville.
"Do you know if he had any enemies?"
"Well, obviously he had, hadn't he?"
"Yes, sir, but what I'm trying to establish -'
"I know, but you see I'm just as much at a loss as you are. You weren't acquainted with my uncle?"
"I can't say as I was, sir."
Neville blew one smoke ring through another, and watched it dreamily. "Everybody called him Ernie," he sighed. "Or Ernie dear, according to sex. You see?"
The Sergeant stared for a moment, and then said slowly: "I think I get you, sir. I've always heard him well spoken of, I'm bound to say. I take it you don't know of any person with a grudge against him?"
Neville shook his head. The Sergeant looked at him rather discontentedly, and consulted Glass's notebook. "I see you state that after you left the dining-room you went into the billiard-room, where you remained until Miss Fletcher came to find you. At what hour would that have been?"
Neville smiled apologetically.
"You don't know, sir? No idea at all? Try and think!"
"Alas, time has hitherto meant practically nothing to me. Does it help if I say that my aunt mentioned that a most peculiar visitor was with my uncle? A fat little man, who carried his hat in his hand. She had seen him in the hall."
"Did you see this man?" asked the Sergeant quickly.
"No."
"You don't know whether he was still with your uncle when you went up to your room?"
"Sergeant, Sergeant, do you think I listen at keyholes?"
"Of course not, sir, but -'
"At least, not when I'm wholly incurious," explained Neville, temporising.
"Well, sir, we'll say that some time between 9.00 and 10.00 you went up to your room."
"At half-past nine," said Neville.
"At - A moment ago, sir, you said you had no idea what time it was!"
"Oh, I hadn't, but I remember now one solitary cuckoo."
The Sergeant shot a startled look towards Glass, standing motionless and disapproving by the door. A suspicion that the eccentric Neville Fletcher was of unsound mind had darted into his brain. "What might you mean by that, sir?"
"Only the clock on the landing," said Neville.
"A cuckoo-clock! Well, really, sir, for a moment I thought - And it struck the half-hour?"
"Yes, but it's quite often wrong."
"We'll go into that presently. Which way does your room face, sir?"
"North."
"It's at the back of the house, then? Would it be possible for you to hear anyone coming up the side path?"
"I don't know. I didn't hear anyone, but I wasn't trying to.
"Quite," said the Sergeant. "Well, I think that'll be all for the present, thank you, sir. Of course, you understand that you will not be able to leave this house for a day or two? Just a matter of routine, you know. We'll hope it won't be long before we get the whole thing cleared up."
"Yes, let's," agreed Neville. His gaze dwelt speculatively on a picture on the wall opposite the fireplace. "It wouldn't be robbery, would it?"
"Hardly, sir, but of course we can't say definitely yet. It isn't likely a burglar would come when Mr. Fletcher was still up, not to mention the rest of the household."
"No. Only the safe is behind that picture -just in case you didn't know."
"Yes, sir, so the butler informed me. We've been over it for finger-prints, and as soon as we can get Mr. Fletcher's lawyer down we'll have it opened. Yes, Hepworth? Found anything?"
The last words were addressed to a constable who had stepped into the room through the window.
"Not much, Sergeant, but I'd like you to have a look at one thing."
The Sergeant went at once; Neville uncoiled himself, got up, and wandered out of the room in his wake. "Don't mind me coming, do you?" he murmured, as the Sergeant turned his head.
"I don't see as there's any objection, sir. The fact is, a man was seen sneaking out by the side gate just after 10
p.m., and unless I'm mistaken he's the chap we're after."
"A - a fat man?" suggested Neville, blinking.
"Ah, that would be too easy, wouldn't it, sir?" said the Sergeant indulgently. "No, just an ordinary looking chap in a soft hat. Well, Hepworth, what is it?"
The constable had led the way to the back of a flowering currant bush, which was planted in a bed close to the house. He directed the beam of his torch on to the ground. In the soft earth were the deep imprints of a pair of high-heeled shoes.
"They're freshly made, Sergeant," said Hepworth. "Someone's been hiding behind this bush."
"The Women in the Case!" said Neville. "Aren't we having fun?"
Chapter Two
By half-past eleven the police, with the exception of one constable, left behind to keep a watch over the house, had departed from Greystones. Miss Fletcher, gently interrogated by the Sergeant, had been unable to assist the course of justice. The news of the finding of the imprints of a woman's shoes did not seem either to shock or to surprise her. "He was such an attractive man," she confided to the Sergeant. "Of course, I don't mean - but one has to remember that Men are not like Us, doesn't one?"
The Sergeant had found himself listening to a panegyric on the late Ernest Fletcher: how charming he was; how popular; what perfect manners he had; how kind he had always been to his sister; how gay; how dashing; how generous! Out of this turmoil of words certain facts had emerged. Neville was the son of Ernie's brother Ted, many years deceased, and certainly his heir. Neville was a dear boy, but you never knew what he would be up to next, and - yes, it did annoy poor Ernie when he got himself imprisoned in some horrid Balkan state - oh, nothing serious, but Neville was so hopelessly vague, and simply lost his passport. As for the Russian woman who had appeared at Neville's hotel with all her luggage before breakfast one morning in Budapest, saying he had invited her at some party the night before - well, one couldn't exactly approve, of course, but young men did get drunk sometimes, and anyway the woman was obviously no better than she should be, and really Neville was not like that at all. At the same time, one did rather feel for Ernie, having to buy the creature off. But it was quite, quite untrue to say that Ernie didn't like Neville: they hadn't much in common, but blood was thicker than water, and Ernie was always so understanding.
Questioned more closely, no, she knew of no one who nourished the least grudge against her brother. She thought the murderer must have been one of these dreadful maniacs one read about in the papers.
The Sergeant got away from her, not without difficulty, and very soon left the house. Aunt and nephew confronted one another in the drawing-room.
"I feel as though this were all a horrible nightmare!" said Miss Fletcher, putting a hand to her head. "There's a policeman in the hall, and they've locked dear Ernie's study!"
"Does it worry you?" asked Neville. "Was there anything there you wished to destroy?"
"That," said Miss Fletcher, "would be most dishonest. Not but what I feel sure Ernie would have preferred it to having strangers poking their noses into his affairs. Of course I wouldn't destroy anything important, but I'm sure there isn't anything. Only you know what men are, dear, even the best of them."
"No, do tell me!"
"Well," said Miss Fletcher, "one shuts one's eyes to That Side of a Man's life, but I'm afraid, Neville, that there have been Women. And some of them, I think - though of course I don't know - not what I call Nice Women."
"Men are funny like that," said Neville dulcetly.
"Yes, dear, and naturally I was very thankful, because at one time I made sure Ernie would get caught."
"Caught?"
"Marriage," explained Miss Fletcher. "That would have been a great blow to me. Only, luckily, he wasn't a very constant man."
Neville looked at her in surprise. She smiled unhappily at him, apparently unaware of having said anything remarkable. She looked the acme of respectability; a plump, faded lady, with wispy grey hair and mild eyes, red-rimmed from crying, and a prim little mouth, innocent of lip-stick.
"I'm now definitely upset," said Neville. "I think I'll go to bed."
She said distressfully: "Oh dear, is it what I've told you? But it's bound to come out, so you had to know sooner or later."
"Not my uncle; my aunt!" said Neville.
"You do say such odd things, dear," she said. "You're overwrought, and no wonder. Ought I to offer that policeman some refreshment?"
He left her engaged in conversation with the officer on duty in the hall, and went up to his own room. After a short interval his aunt tapped on his door, desiring to know whether he felt all right. He called out to her that he was quite all right, but sleepy, and so after exchanging good-nights with him, and promising not to disturb him again, Miss Fletcher went away to her own bedroom in the front of the house.
Neville Fletcher, having locked his door, climbed out of his window, and reached the ground by means of a stout drain-pipe, and the roof of the verandah outside the drawing-room.
The garden lay bathed in moonlight. In case a watch had been set over the side entrance, Neville made his way instead to the wall at the end of the garden, which separated it from the Arden Road. Espaliers trained up it made the scaling of it a simple matter. Neville reached the top, lowered himself on the other side, and let himself drop. He landed with the ease of the trained athlete, paused to light a cigarette, and began to walk westwards along the road. A hundred yards brought him to a crossroad running parallel to Maple Grove. He turned up it, and entered the first gateway he came to. A big, square house was sharply outlined by the moonshine, lights shining through the curtains of several of the windows. One of these, on the ground-floor to the left of the front door, stood open. Neville went to it, parted the curtains, and looked into the room.
A woman sat at an escritoire, writing, the light of a reading-lamp touching her gold hair with fire. She wore evening dress, and a brocade cloak hung over the back of her chair. Neville regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, and then stepped into the room.
She looked up quickly, and gave a sobbing gasp of shock. The fright of her eyes gave place almost immediately to an expression of relief. Colour rushed into her lovely face; she caught her hand to her breast, saying faintly: 'Neville! Oh, how you startled me!"
"That's nothing to what I've been through tonight," replied Neville. "Such fun and games at Greystones, my dear: you wouldn't believe!"
She shut her blotter upon her half-finished letter. "You haven't got them?" she asked, between eagerness and incredulity.
"All I've got is the jitters," said Neville. He strolled over to her, and to her surprise went down on his knee.
"Neville, what on earth - ?"
His hand clasped her ankle. "Let's have a look at your foot, my sweet." He pulled it up and studied her silver kid shoe. "O my prophetic soul! Now we are in a mess, aren't we? Just like your pretty little slippers." He let her go, and stood up.
Swift alarm dilated her eyes. She glanced down at her shoes, and twitched the folds of her frock over them. "What do you mean?"
"Can it, precious. You called on Ernie tonight, and hid behind a bush outside the study window."
"How did you know?" she asked quickly.
"Intuition. You might have left it to me. What was the use of dragging me into it if you were going to muscle in? God knows I was unwilling enough."
"That's just it. I didn't think you'd be any good. You're so unreliable, and I knew you hated doing it."
"Oh, I did, and I am, and I wasn't any good, but all the same it was damned silly of you not to give me a run for my money. Did you get them, by the way?"
"No. He only - laughed, and - oh, you know!"
"Well isn't that nice!" said Neville. "Did you happen to knock him on the head?"
"Oh, don't be silly!" she said impatiently.
"If that's acting, it's good," said Neville, looking at her critically. "Did you see who did?"
She was frowning. "Did I see who did what?"
/>
"Knocked Ernie on the head. My pretty ninny, Ernie's been murdered."
A sound between a scream and a whimper broke from her. "Neville! Oh no! Nerrille, you don't mean that!"
He looked at her with a smile lilting on his mouth. "Didn't you know?"
Her eyes searched his, while the colour receded slowly from her face. "I didn't do it!" she gasped.
"I shouldn't think you'd have the strength," he agreed.
They were interrupted by the opening of the door. A slim young woman with a cluster of brown curls, a monocle screwed into her left eye, entered the room, saying calmly: "Did you call, Helen?" Her gaze alighted on Neville; she said with every appearance of disgust: "Oh, you're here, are you?"
"Yes, but I wouldn't have been if I'd known you were, hell-cat," responded Neville sweetly.
Miss Drew gave a contemptuous snort, and looked critically at her sister. "You look absolutely gangrenous," she remarked. "Anything the matter?"
Helen North's hands twisted nervously together. "Ernie Fletcher's been murdered."
"Good!" said Miss Drew, unperturbed. "Neville come to tell you?"
Helen shuddered. "Oh don't! It's awful, awful!"
"Personally," said Miss Drew, taking a cigarette from the box on the table, and fitting it into a long holder, "I regard it as definitely memorable. I hate men with super polished manners, and charming smiles. Who killed him?"
"I don't know! You can't think I know!" Helen cried. "Sally! - Neville! - oh, my God!" She looked wildly from one to the other, and sank down on to a sofa, burying her face in her hands.
"If it's an act, it's a good one," said Neville. "If not, it's mere waste of time. Do stop it, Helen! you're making me feel embarrassed."
Sally regarded him with disfavour. "You don't seem to be much upset," she said.
"You didn't see me an hour ago," replied Neville. "I even lost my poise."
She sniffed, but merely said: "You'd better tell me all about it. It might be good copy."
"What a lovely thought!" said Neville. "Ernie has not died in vain."
"I've always wanted to be in on a real murder," remarked Sally thoughtfully. "How was he killed?"
"He had his head smashed," replied Neville.
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