"You didn't notice the espalier before," said Neville.
"It might be better for you, sir, if you told the truth about your doings on the night of the murder without waiting to be questioned," suggested the Sergeant, with a touch of severity.
"Oh no! You'd have thought it very fishy if I'd been as expansive as all that," said Neville.
Upon reflection, the Sergeant privately agreed with him. However, all he said was that Neville would be wise not to try to be too clever with the police.
"You may be right," answered Neville, "but your Superintendent said that no good would come of my taking the Press to my bosom, and lots of good came of it. I've got my picture in the papers."
"You have?" said the Sergeant, diverted in spite of himself. "What, you're not going to tell me they went and printed all that International spy stuff?"
"No," replied Neville regretfully. "Not that, but one of the eager brotherhood really thought I was the Boots."
Sally gave a crow of mirth. "Neville, is that what you told them? Oh, do let me see your interview!"
"I will, if the Sergeant doesn't mind putting off my arrest for ten minutes."
The Sergeant said: "You know very well I've got nothing to arrest you on, sir."
"But wouldn't you love to do it?" murmured Neville.
"You get along with you, sir," recommended the Sergeant.
To his relief, Neville obeyed his command, linking his arm in Sally's, and strolling away with her towards the house. Out of earshot, she said: "You spilled more than I bargained for."
"Diverting his mind."
"I hope to God you didn't say too much."
"Yes, so do I," agreed Neville. "One comfort is that we shall soon know. How's the heroine of this piece doing?"
"If you mean Helen -'
"I do, darling, and if one of your sisterly fits is coming on, go home and do not bore me with it."
"Gosh, how I do dislike you!" exclaimed Sally.
"Well, you're not singular," said Neville comfortingly. "In fact, I'm getting amazingly unpopular. Aunt Lucy gets gooseflesh whenever she sets eyes on me."
"I'm not surprised. I must say, I think -'
"What compels you?" inquired Neville.
"Oh shut up! I will say that I think it's fairly low of you to get yourself photographed as the Boots. Miss Fletcher's got enough to bear without your antics being added to the rest."
"Not at all," he replied. "My poor aunt was becoming lachrymose, and no pleasure to herself or me. The paper that printed my story, carefully imported into the house by me, has been another of my diversions. Indignation not profitable, but better than aimless woe. How's Helen?"
"She's all right," said Sally, a note of reserve in her voice.
A sleepy but intelligent eye was cocked at her. "Ah, the atmosphere a trifle strained? I wondered why you came round here."
"It wasn't that at all. I wanted to take another look at the lay-out. And I thought it might be a good thing to evaporate for a bit. John's not going up to town till after lunch."
"Don't tell me it's a necking-party!" said Neville incredulously.
She gave a short laugh. "No. But I'm giving it a chance to become one. If only John weren't so - so idiotically unapproachable!"
"These strong men! Oh, do tell me! If it turns out to be John who killed Ernie, do we seek to cover up the evidence of his guilt, or not?"
She did not answer, but, as they reached the drawingroom window, pulled her arm away from his, and said abruptly: "Are you capable of speaking the truth, Neville?"
"Didn't you hear me just now, speaking the truth to the Sergeant?"
"That was different. What I want to know is this, are you in love with Helen?"
"Oh, God give me strength!" moaned Neville. "A chair - brandy - a basin! Romance, as pictured by Sally Drew! Tell me, does anyone really read your works?"
"All very well," said Sally, critically surveying him. "But you're quite a good actor, and I can't get it out of my head that you agreed to try and wrest those IOUs from Ernie. I haven't before seen you falling over yourself to render assistance to people."
"No, darling, and believe me, you won't see it again. Not that I did. If I fell it was because I was pushed. Don't tell me you've inserted this repulsive notion into John's head!"
"I haven't, of course, but I shouldn't be altogether surprised if it were there. I may be wrong, but one thing I do know, and that is that he's being extremely guarded - not to say frozen."
"You'd be guarded if you looked like being pinched for murder."
She let her monocle drop. "Neville, do you think there's a danger of that?"
"I do, of course. What is more, I don't think that the further instalment of Helen's adventures on the fatal night are going to be as helpful to John as she no doubt felt they would be."
"No," said Sally bluntly. "Nor do I. If she'd only keep her mouth shut . By the way, John doesn't know anything about her second interview with the Superintendent, so don't go and let it out!"
"How simple life would be without friends! Why, in the name of all that's feeble-minded -'
"Because he'd be bound to ask why she went back to the study, of course, and that would tear the whole thing wide open. She'd have to tell him about the IOUs."
"Let's go and write an anonymous letter to John, divulging the whole story, shall we?" suggested Neville. "It would be a kindness to them both, and I don't in the least mind doing people kindnesses if it doesn't cost me anything."
Sally sighed. "I darned nearly told him myself, when he first arrived. Only Helen was so terrified of his knowing that I didn't. And since then… Oh, I don't know! She may be right. I can't make John out. Neville, what brought him home?"
"Dear heart, will you purge your mind of the belief that I'm good at riddles?"
"He doesn't suspect her of having had an affair with Ernie. Apparently he told her he didn't."
"Well, it's nice to know that he hasn't joined the great majority."
She looked sharply at him. "Is that what people have been thinking? Go on, tell me!"
"People are so lewd," murmured Neville.
"Has there been talk? Much of it?"
"Oh no! Just a little light-hearted gossip to pass the time."
She was silent for a moment, frowning. At last she said: "That's bad. Easily discovered, and saddles John with a motive. If he got wind of that… Hang it, he wouldn't burst home just to bash Ernie on the head! It's archaic."
Neville handed her a cigarette, and lit one himself. "You could work that up into a plausible story if you put your mind to it," he said. "While in Berlin, John heard repercussions of the gossip -'
"Why in Berlin?" she interrupted.
"That I can't tell you. You'll probably be able to think out several attractive answers for yourself. He returned to remonstrate with Ernie -'
"I don't see John remonstrating."
"No, darling; if you'd seen John remonstrating you'd be a suspect yourself."
"What I mean is -'
"We know, we know! Have it your own way! He came home to issue an ultimatum. Ernie got under his skin, and without taking much thought he knocked him on the head."
"Several flaws," said Sally. "Why did he enter by the side gate, if not with malice aforethought?"
"State entry heralded by butler leading to undesirable publicity. Gossip amongst servants, possibility of encountering Aunt Lucy. Lots of answers."
"All right. What did he do with the weapon?"
"Not a fair question. Doesn't apply exclusively to John. Whoever killed Ernie disposed of the weapon with such skill as to provide this case with its most baffling feature."
"Very nice," said Sally. "You've been reading my books. But let me tell you that I'm not a believer in these sudden flashes of brilliance on the part of murderers. When I think out a bit of dazzling ingenuity for my criminal to indulge in, it usually costs me several hours of brain-racking thought."
"The human mind sharpened by fear -'
"Bosh!" said Sally, flicking the ash from the end of her cigarette. "In my experience, the human mind, when under the influence of fear, rushes round in frantic circles. No, thanks: that theory doesn't go big with me at all. As I see it, there was one person who had time, motive and opportunity to kill Ernie, and lashings of time in which to dispose of the weapon."
He met her look with a flickering smile, and lifted his hand. "Oh, no! This hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted with the crimson spots of blood."
"Round of applause from the gallery. But quotations prove nothing. You could have done it, Neville."
"Oh, but why stop at me? Perhaps Aunty Lucy did it, with one of her Indian clubs. I believe she wields them with considerable vigour."
"Don't be silly. Why should she?"
"Heaven knows. If you don't fancy her, what about Simmons?"
"Again why?"
"And again, Heaven knows. Why leave all the brainwork to me? You think."
"Yes, well, I see very little point in thinking out fantastic motives for Miss Fletcher and Simmons while you're right under my nose, complete with a motive I don't have to hunt for."
He looked bored. "Well, if you're going to make me the favourite, I shall lose all interest. The crime becomes at once pedestrian and commonplace. Oh, here's my poor aunt! Come and help us to solve the mystery, Aunt Lucy. My theory is that you did it."
Miss Fletcher, who had entered the drawing-room, came over to the window, but said in a voice of shocked indignation: "I'm sure I don't know where you get your dreadful tongue from, Neville. It certainly wasn't from your dear father. I know it is only thoughtlessness, but the things you say are in the very worst of bad taste. And you haven't even bought an armband!"
"I know. I thought it would look like the fall from the sublime to the ridiculous if I did," he explained, indicating with a wave of his hand her funereal attire.
"One likes to show respect for the dead," she said. "Oh, Miss Drew, so kind of your sister to send such beautiful flowers!" She pressed Sally's hand, and added: "I expect you must find this all most interesting. I always think it so clever of you to write books. So complicated, too. Not that I've read them, of course. I find I'm too stupid to understand detective stories, but I always put them down on my library list."
"You wouldn't be so encouraging if you knew what she's up to," said Neville. "She's trying to prove that I murdered Ernie."
"Oh no, dear!" said Miss Fletcher distressfully. "I'm afraid Neville's often very thoughtless, but he wouldn't do a thing like that."
"Why on earth you can't keep a still tongue in your head baffles conjecture!" Sally told Neville wrathfully.
"His poor father was very talkative," explained Miss Fletcher. "Dear Ernie, too, was always good company. But unfortunately Neville has got into a bad habit of mumbling, which makes it very difficult to hear what he says. Neville, I have just discovered that there will have to be an inquest. Can nothing be done to stop it?"
"No. Do you mind?" he inquired.
"Well, dear, it's not very nice, is it? We've never had such a thing in the family. So common! I wonder if Mr. Lawrence could do anything about it? I think I will go and ring him up."
"But Miss Fletcher -!"began Sally, only to be silenced by having her foot trodden on by Neville.
Miss Fletcher, recommending Neville to take care of his guest, drifted away. Neville said softly: "You know, you're a menace. Leave my aunt to me, will you?"
"But what's the use of letting her think there needn't be an inquest? It isn't very considerate of you to -'
"Of course it's not considerate! It wasn't considerate of me to discover that I hadn't a shirt fit to wear this morning, or a pair of socks without holes in them; and it won't be considerate of me when I think up a new annoyance, which I shall do as soon as this inquestbusiness begins to wear thin. You've got a disgustingly sentimental idea that bereaved persons ought to be humoured, cosseted, and given plenty of time in which to indulge their grief. I shouldn't be at all surprised to find that you're one of those paralysing monsters of unselfishness, with a bias towards self-sacrifice, and a strong yen for shouldering other people's burdens."
Sally gave a gasp. "Go on! It's the rankest kind of boloney, but I should be interested to know how you defend it."
"Shouldn't place people under obligations," said Neville briefly. "Nearly always intolerable. Effect on your own character probably disastrous."
"Why?"
"Spiritual conceit."
She polished her monocle. "There's something in what you say," she admitted. "Not much, but a grain of truth. Sorry I tried to butt in on your plans for Miss Fletcher's consolation. I very nearly took a hand in Helen's differences with John, too. A small, inner voice bade me hold my peace."
"A woman's instinct!" said Neville, deeply moved. "Not but what I sympathise with your purely rational desire to disperse the fog they grope in. But one should never forget that some people fair revel in fog."
"Helen isn't revelling in any of this," Sally replied. "Married couples who can't get on rather bore me in the ordinary way, but though I think she's been cavorting around like a prize ass my withers are a trifle wrung by Helen's troubles. They really do seem to have gathered thick and fast upon her. The worst of it is, I can't be sure which way John will jump if he discovers the truth."
"Baffling man -John," agreed Neville.
"Well, he is. Just consider it! He arrives in England, unexpectedly, the day Ernie is murdered, and turns up here the next morning, suspecting that the footprints discovered in the garden might be Helen's."
"Oh no, did he really? That leads us to suppose that he knew something."
"Yes, but what? Helen says he doesn't suspect her of having had any kind of liaison with Ernie. But when he walked in on us yesterday the general impression I got was that an iceberg had drifted in. In fact, he was coldly angry, and not loving any of us very noticeably."
"Forgive the interruption, but if he thought Helen was mixed up in a murder case, there was a certain amount of excuse for peevishness. I don't want to be old-world, but wife's admitted presence in home of noted lady-killer is enough to make most men feel a trifle out of humour."
"I know, and if he'd raged at her I could have understood it. He was just deadly polite."
"Obviously the moment for Helen to put over a big act as repentant wife."
"That what I hope she is doing, but she's so burned up over the whole thing that she seems to have lost grip. Of course, if John were to say: "Darling, tell me all," I expect she would. But he isn't that sort. They must have let themselves drift an awful way apart."
The same thought was in Helen's mind at that moment. She had just entered the library, where her husband sat writing at his desk, and almost before she closed the door behind her she wished that she were on the other side of it.
North looked up, regarding her in a way which did not tend to put her any more at her ease. "Do you want me, Helen?" he asked impersonally.
"I - No, not exactly. Are you busy?"
He laid down his pen. "Not if you wish to talk to me."
This reply, though possibly intended to be encouraging, had the effect of making Helen feel a very long way away from him. She moved across the room to a chair by the window, and sat down in it. "It's such a long time since we talked together - really talked - that I seem to have forgotten how," she said, trying to speak lightly.
His face hardened. "Yes."
She realised that hers had been an unfortunate remark. She said, not looking at him: "We - we ought to talk this thing over, don't you think? It concerns us both, doesn't it?"
"Certainly. What do you want to say?"
She tried to formulate sentences in her brain; he neither moved nor spoke, but sat watching her. Suddenly she raised her eyes, and said abruptly: "Why did you come home like that? So unexpectedly, and without a word to me?"
"I thought, Helen, that you already knew the answer to that question."
>
"I? How could I know?"
"You informed me that you did. You said that I had come home to spy on you."
She flushed. "I didn't mean it. I was upset."
"That you were upset by my arrival is not, my dear Helen, a very reassuring thought."
"Not that! Ernie's death - that policeman asking me such ghastly questions!"
"We should get on better," he remarked, "if you did not lie to me. I know you rather well. You were horrified to see me."
She looked rather hopelessly across at him. "Oh, what's the use of talking like this? It only leads to misunderstandings, and bitterness."
After a moment's silence, he answered levelly: "Very well. What did you want to talk to me about? Fletcher's murder?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"It seems to be very much on your nerves."
"Wouldn't it be on yours?"
"That would depend on whether I felt either grief, or fear."
"Grief ! Oh no! But I was there that evening. I don't want to be dragged into it. You must see how awful my position is!"
"Had you not better tell me exactly what happened?" he suggested.
"I did tell you. I think I've made the Superintendent realise that it would be no use asking me to identify the man I saw, but -'
Just a moment, Helen. It is time we understood one another. Did you,, in fact, recognise that man?"
"No!" she said quickly. "I never saw his face."
"But you have some idea, haven't you, who he was?"
She said in a low voice: "If I had I shouldn't tell a soul. You can be sure of that."
"In that case, there does not seem to be much point in pursuing the matter further," he said. "The only advice I can possibly give you, as things are, is to keep calm, and to say as little as you can." He picked up his pen again, but after writing a couple of lines, said, without looking up: "By the way, have you any objection to telling me why Neville Fletcher came to see you on the night of the murder?"
She gave an uncontrollable start, and faltered: "How do you know? Who told you?"
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