Root of All Evil

by E. X. Ferrars

  It was at about eleven o’clock that Laycock returned to the house. Agnes was in the kitchen at the time and brought him into the drawing-room.

  “I thought we ought to tell Ted what’s happened, Felicity,” she said, “in case the police come back and start bothering us again tomorrow.”

  “Yes, well, you tell him, Agnes,” Felicity said. “I’m too tired. I’m going up to bed. Did you have a nice evening, Laycock?”

  “Yes, thank you, madam,” he replied formally. “Very agreeable.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We—I mean, I went to the cinema, then had supper in the Ring of Bells.”

  “And had a drink or two, I expect.”

  “Well, yes, madam.”

  “And you went with your girlfriend, of course. Why d’you pretend you haven’t got a girlfriend, Laycock? We know you have.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested,” he said gravely.

  “Oh, that’s the sort of thing that always interests me. Well, good night. And I think I’d like breakfast in bed tomorrow, Agnes. Bring it up to me about eight o’clock. Good night, Andrew. D’you know, it’s a very odd feeling, not having been murdered?”

  “Good night, Felicity,” he replied.

  She went out, leaving Laycock looking at Andrew questioningly. There was an odd look of anxiety on his face.

  Andrew wished that he could make up his mind about the man’s age. He had such a boyish face, yet there were those curious lines on it that should not have come there until he was a good deal older than he appeared. And there was something completely unconvincing about the formality of his manner, almost as if it were something that he had learnt for a part that he was playing. He stood waiting for Andrew or Agnes to tell him what had happened in the house while he had been away.

  Agnes made a little gesture to show that she was leaving it to Andrew. He began by asking Laycock if he had heard of Margot Weldon.

  “No, sir,” Laycock replied. “That’s to say, the name seems familiar, but I don’t recall where I’ve heard it.”

  “She was my predecessor,” Agnes said. “She worked for Mrs. Silvester for a short time about five years ago, and she was dismissed because Mrs. Silvester found she’d forged some cheques of hers.”

  “Yes, I remember now,” Laycock said. “I think you must have mentioned her to me sometime, Mrs. Cavell. Is that why the police have been here—something to do with the forgery?”

  Andrew could not help noticing the apprehension in the man’s manner. It worried him, though he reminded himself that at certain social levels there is often a deep fear of the police, together with a conviction that if anyone is going to be suspected of wrongdoing, they will be the first victims.

  He went on to tell Laycock, as briefly as he could, what had happened that evening.

  The young man stood quite still all the time that Andrew was talking. He had an unusual gift of immobility. He did not even blink, but as his eyes met Andrew’s his eyelids were faintly contracted in a way that heightened the look of anxiety on his face.

  “Very distressing, sir,” he said when Andrew concluded the story.

  “Very,” Andrew agreed.

  “I’m sorry I was absent. I might perhaps have been of some assistance. Actually I was with the lady whom Mrs. Silvester refers to as my girlfriend. A Miss Bartlemy. We went to a cinema together where they’re showing a film called The Day of the Red Death. A horror film and not what would have been my choice normally, but Miss Bartlemy is partial to such things. Then we had a late supper at the Ring of Bells and, as Mrs. Silvester guessed, a drink or two. Then I saw Miss Bartlemy home, then I took a bus home and arrived, as you know, a few minutes ago.”

  “But nobody’s asking you for your alibi, Laycock,” Andrew said quietly.

  A flush reddened Laycock’s pink cheeks.

  “No, of course not, sir,” he said. “I was just going over in my own mind where I probably was when these unfortunate things were happening. Quite automatic. No sense in it at all. All the same, if there should be any trouble...” He paused.

  “What kind of trouble do you anticipate?” Andrew asked.

  “Well, you never can tell where you are once you get mixed up with the police, can you? If there should be any doubts, for instance, about the manner of Miss Weldon’s death... Not that I expect there will be, but if there are...” Laycock shrugged his shoulders, as if he were dismissing the matter. “Would you like your breakfast in your room, sir? Shall I bring it up to you?”

  “No, thank you,” Andrew said. “I’ll come down. What time do you usually have it?”

  Agnes answered, “Generally about half past eight, but come down when you feel like it.”

  “I’ll give you a call about eight o’clock, if that will suit you, sir,” Laycock said. “Good night. Good night, Mrs. Cavell.”

  They both said good night and he went out.

  When the door had closed behind him Andrew exclaimed, “However did Felicity find him? I’d feel inclined to count the spoons every evening as long as he’s here.”

  Agnes looked disturbed. “Don’t you think he’s trustworthy?”

  “I’m only certain he’s never been a manservant before,” Andrew answered. “He’s acting a part all the time and it’s a most unconvincing performance. And the first thing he does when he hears the police have been here is to supply us with his alibi.”

  She gave a sigh. “Oh dear, I do hope there’s nothing the matter with him. Felicity’s taken such a fancy to him and she’s so pleased at having found him all by herself. I was away on holiday at the time she did it and I wasn’t altogether in favour of the idea when I first came back and found him installed. But he’s really been so useful and now I think it was a very good thing. And when we’re just by ourselves he often forgets about being the perfect servant and becomes quite a normal, friendly young man. I expect today he’s nervous of you and trying to impress you.”

  “All the same, when he heard of Margot Weldon’s death, he leapt to the conclusion it might be murder, didn’t he?” Andrew said. “Isn’t that what he meant by trouble with the police and why he was so quick about producing that alibi?”

  She turned her head away from him and gazed down into the dying fire.

  “Isn’t that what you’re afraid of yourself?” she said.

  Chapter Three

  At eight o’clock the next morning Laycock came into Andrew’s room with a tray of early morning tea. Andrew, who had been awake since seven o’clock, his usual time for getting up, looked with a curiosity which he tried to conceal at the young man’s face. It had a pleasant smile on it but his eyes did not meet Andrew’s. Really, Andrew thought, it was an expressionless face as well as one showing a strange mixture of youthfulness and an almost painful maturity. If he was as young as he appeared at first glance, then he must have gone through a period of suffering that had left deep marks on him, or if he was as old as these marks suggested, then something about him had never grown up.

  Andrew had been thinking about him before he had appeared with the tea tray. He wished that he did not feel such distrust of the young man. He found it very uncomfortable to distrust people. Accepting them at their face value was really so very much less demanding than trying to understand what was going on under the surface. In trying to do that he had often made bad mistakes, accepting as a matter of course the honesty and sincerity of people whom he should have seen through at a glance, while he had felt the darkest suspicions of people who were merely diffident and unwilling to expose themselves to him or who happened to be absorbed in affairs of their own which had made them unresponsive to friendly advances.

  Yet he could not get out of his mind the oddity of Laycock’s behaviour the evening before when he had heard of Margot Weldon’s death. The anxiety that he had shown and the haste with which he had instantly provided an alibi for himself had been peculiar, there was no avoiding the fact. And if there was something dubious about the young man to whom F
elicity had taken such a fancy, it seemed to Andrew that it was up to him to find it out. For he could not help feeling some responsibility for Felicity because she was old, because she was not very wise and because she was Nell’s cousin.

  She might not thank him for it, because most people prefer their own illusions to other people’s clear-sightedness, but all the same, for his own peace of mind, he thought, it was necessary for him to do what he could. Not that he had any idea how to set about it. Felicity had said that she herself had looked into Laycock’s references, so perhaps the first thing to do was to question her about them.

  But she did not come downstairs until nearly twelve o’clock and by then the other members of the Silvester family—Derek, Frances, Quentin, his sister Georgina and his fiancée Patricia—were due to arrive shortly. Andrew had had the morning to himself. He had gone downstairs at half past eight, absent-mindedly starting down the stairs in his socks and only when he was halfway down them remembering that in someone else’s house it would be more courteous to wear slippers. So he had returned to his room, put on slippers and started downstairs again.

  At home he was accustomed to a breakfast of coffee, toast and marmalade and a piece of cheese. At some time something that he had read on the subject had persuaded him that it was important to start the day with some protein and naturally to eat a piece of cheese was far less trouble than boiling himself an egg. But today, though there had been no cheese, there had been no need to worry about any lack of protein. Besides coffee and cornflakes, he had found a generous plateful of bacon and eggs provided, which he had eaten alone, waited on by Laycock, because Agnes had had her breakfast already and had been busy in the kitchen, working on lunch for the family.

  After breakfast Andrew had considered going for a walk, but as he thought of setting off across the common once more, the only alternative to which was to take the road through the suburbs into the town, he had thought that it would mean going past the spot where the body of Margot Weldon had been found. Though he felt a momentary curiosity about it—almost a desire to go and look at the place for himself—he had decided against it and stayed by the fire in the drawing-room, reading The Times. A little before twelve o’clock Felicity joined him.

  She had taken some pains with her appearance. She had discreet make-up on her face, suitable to her age, and was wearing a dress of soft blue-and-grey prettily printed wool. She had a brooch of sapphires and small diamonds at her throat and earrings that matched the brooch. Andrew was not usually observant of such things, but it occurred to him that whenever he had seen Felicity she had generally been wearing some good jewellery. If it was the fact that the sudden draught through the house the evening before had been caused by some would-be thief opening the back door, it seemed not unlikely that he had somehow found out that he would find loot worth his trouble.

  “We’ll have a drink before the others come,” she said as she sat down. “I’ve told Laycock to bring them. I generally have a drink when I’m expecting the family. I like to be nicely pepped up before they arrive so that they can’t sit looking at me, thinking I’m failing... Andrew, about what happened last night...”

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Do you think it was really important?”

  “Isn’t death important?”

  “But I mean important to me. Do you really think there’s any reason why I should worry about it?”

  “I don’t know, Felicity.”

  “Last night I was dreadfully worried. I told you I was scared. That’s why I asked Derek to come. And now I feel I’ve got to find out everything I can about Margot in case—well, in case it was really just the beginning of something. Does that sound absurd? All the same, I think Patricia was probably right and it’s all over and there’s no reason to make a fuss about it. It’s very sad, very distressing, but not really important.” She paused, looking at him, then she observed, “I can see you don’t agree with me. Why do you think it’s important?”

  “Only because it’s so irrational,” Andrew replied, “which perhaps isn’t a very rational answer. May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “You said yesterday you’d looked into Laycock’s references yourself. Can you tell me anything about them?”

  “Where he’s worked before, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was for a Lady—Lady Something—let me think. I think I’ve got her number written down in my address book. Do you want me to find it?”

  “No, don’t bother. You wrote to her, did you?”

  “No, we talked on the telephone. She seemed a very nice woman. She told me he’d worked for her for three years and before that had been in the Army for a time. She was only parting with him because she was going to live with a daughter in Canada. She’d the highest opinion of him.”

  “So she’s in Canada now, is she? I don’t suppose you’ve her address.”

  “Oh no.”

  “And in fact you’d just the one reference.”

  “Yes, but it seemed quite adequate. Why, Andrew? What’s worrying you about him?”

  “It’s just the rather odd way he acted after you’d gone to bed. When we told him about Margot Weldon, he immediately gave us his alibi, just as if we’d accused him of something.”

  “I’m afraid that’s the way some people of his class react the moment there’s trouble of any sort,” she said. “It can make things quite difficult for one. There’s a very nice woman who comes in to clean here every day—not today, because it’s Good Friday—and she’s been coming to me for years and I’ve complete faith in her. But one day I mislaid a ring and I asked her if she’d seen it and she blew up in my face and told me that if I suspected her of having taken it she’d give in her notice on the spot. And that would have been an absolute disaster, because Agnes and I are completely dependent on her. And I’d never even thought of suspecting her and of course I found the ring later under my dressing table, where it had rolled when I’d knocked it off without noticing.”

  The door opened and Laycock came in with a tray of drinks, placed it on a table at Felicity’s elbow and withdrew in his dignified way.

  When he had gone Andrew said, “I’d feel happier about him if I were more sure about his class. Sometimes, it seems to me, his voice slips into perfectly cultured English.”

  “That’s the result of television,” Felicity said. “All the old accents are disappearing. In the old days one could tell what a person’s background was the moment they opened their mouth, but you really can’t any more. Please pour out the sherry, Andrew, and don’t start suspecting poor Laycock of God knows what just because he was a bit touchy about things last night.”

  Andrew and Felicity had finished their glasses of sherry by the time Derek Silvester and his family arrived. If it was the drink that had done it Andrew did not know, but Felicity appeared cheerful and animated and a faint flush had appeared on her cheeks which heightened her look of ancient distinction. She and Andrew both had second glasses with their guests. Andrew found that he recognized Derek and his wife immediately on seeing them, though until he did so he had been unable to recall their faces. Derek, who was about fifty, was a heavy man with a solid paunch and thick jowls and a smooth-skinned, slightly puffy face, with fair hair that was turning grey and already receding from his forehead. He did not resemble his mother in any way. A look of authority gave his otherwise commonplace features a certain impressiveness. Frances, his wife, looked a little younger than he did and was a slim woman with a small face with unmemorable features which had probably been pretty when she was young but had not weathered very well, wispy brown hair and big, worried-looking grey eyes. She was wearing a dark-red twin set and matching skirt and a choker of large imitation pearls. She and Derek went through the routine of kissing Felicity and being introduced to Andrew and saying that they were sure he did not remember them, even though they had been at poor Nell’s funeral and had been so fond of her.

  Quentin and Patr
icia lined up behind their elders to kiss Felicity, then shook hands with Andrew. Only Georgina did not join in what was plainly a ritual. She seemed to ignore Felicity, gave Andrew a brief nod, then wandered away to one of the windows and stood looking out at the garden where the trees were bending in the strong wind that was still blowing. She was so like Quentin in appearance that they might have been twins except that she looked a few years the younger, and whereas he was again in his good grey suit and looked quietly well-groomed, she was wearing dirty jeans and a dirty, bulgy white sweater. Her shining golden hair hung down almost to her waist. She would have been beautiful if she had cleaned herself up a little.

  “Well now, tell me about what happened yesterday,” Derek said, sitting down in a chair near Felicity. “Quentin and Patricia told us something about it, but I can’t make much sense of it. The woman who used to work for you confessed to murdering you, then got herself run over, is that really what happened?”

  At Felicity’s request, Andrew was pouring out drinks.

  “Yes, and you found her for me, didn’t you?” she said. “That’s what I want to talk to you about, Derek. Tell me everything you know about her.”

  “I don’t know anything about her,” Derek said. “I vaguely remember her working for you and then the blowup when you found she’d forged some cheques of yours, but that’s all.”

  “But you found her for me,” Felicity repeated. “You must have known something about her.”