“You were telephoning just now?” he demanded. “Or was it Francia?”
Rex paused for a few moments before replying, as though he wished to consider where this question might lead. Then, moistening his lips before he spoke, he made the first voluntary statement which Mr. Scotswood had heard him utter since the tragedy.
“I used the ’phone. I was ringing up the Black Bull.”
He closed his lips firmly again, as though afraid that he might let slip some further admission. Mr. Scotswood, eyeing Sir Clinton, could not determine whether this answer had been expected or not. It elicited no comment. Sir Clinton turned away from Rex and sat down before the telephone desk. As he was about to pick up the displaced receiver, Mr. Scotswood made a gesture of warning.
“If you pick that thing up, you’ll perhaps destroy some finger-prints on it, Sir Clinton,” he pointed out quickly.
“My finger-prints are on it already. So are those of most of the family,” Sir Clinton explained mildly. “Another set will hardly matter. But, if you think it advisable, we’ll take precautions.”
He pulled out his handkerchief, gripped the receiver gingerly through it, and called up the exchange. In a few seconds he had got through to the police station and acquainted Sergeant Ledbury with the state of affairs so far as Francia was concerned. Mr. Scotswood noticed that Rex’s name was left completely out of the conversation. Sir Clinton rose up as he laid the receiver back on its catch.
“Ledbury will be here in ten minutes,” he said. Then, turning to Rex, he added, “You’d better give up this line, Rex. It does no good, really.”
Rex’s mouth tightened a little; then he broke his silence with another voluntary statement.
“You think you know a lot, but there’s a lot you don’t know.”
Mr. Scotswood was surprised at the substance of this remark, but still more by the tone in which it was uttered. Whatever his motive might be, Rex evidently resented bitterly any attempt of Sir Clinton to come to his aid. Anyone could see from Sir Clinton’s manner that he wanted to help; and yet Rex had thrown away the chance of that assistance almost insultingly. It seemed all of a piece with the general inversion of the normal order of things which had followed on the pistol-shot. Then a sudden thought crossed Mr. Scotswood’s mind. What if Rex were shielding the real criminal at his own expense? Assume that, and the situation appeared to grow clearer.
Chapter Seventeen
SERGEANT LEDBURY’S INVESTIGATION
Although obviously puzzled, Sir Clinton showed no sign that he resented Rex’s violent rejection of his proffered assistance. He seemed to ignore it completely, and for a few moments he appeared to be considering some point quite alien to the latest incident. At last he turned to Mr. Scotswood.
“I’m rather worried about our womenfolk,” he said. “They’ll be a bit nervy, probably; for Staffin will have spread the news of this. Someone ought to look after them, just in case they take it into their heads to venture up here. I leave that to you, if you don’t mind. I can’t very well go myself. The police may be here at any moment now.”
Mr. Scotswood was only too glad of an excuse to betake himself elsewhere, as probably Sir Clinton had guessed. Between Rex’s incomprehensible reserve and the almost brutal, matter-of-fact methods of Sir Clinton, he felt completely out of his element; and the ghastliness of the environment in which the play was staged had affected him more than he liked. He muttered a phrase which might have been anything for all his audience made of it; then, pointedly avoiding the hearthrug with his eyes, he let himself out of the room.
When his retreating steps had died away down the hall, Sir Clinton’s manner changed abruptly.
“He’s out of the road now,” he said in a tone of hardly suppressed eagerness. “Now you can make a clean breast of it, Rex. It’s quite safe; you know I won’t give you away. Quick! Ledbury may be on top of us at any moment.”
His new method of approach yielded exactly the same success as his earlier ones. Rex simply shook his head, not even taking the trouble to put his refusal into words. Sir Clinton seemed dashed by this rebuff. He retreated a step or two and sat down on the arm of one of the big chairs. Mechanically he put his hand into his pocket, pulled out his cigarette-case, placed a cigarette between his lips, and held out the case to Rex, who refused the offer with another head-shake.
“Smoking might steady your nerves,” Sir Clinton pointed out, as he struck a match for his own cigarette. “You’re all jarred up. Bound to be.”
Then his eyes caught Rex’s glance wandering towards the body, which lay almost at their feet.
“Oh, it’s that, is it? Don’t waste any grief over that. Not worth it, really.”
If the brutality of these sentiments was intended to show Rex where his sympathies lay, Sir Clinton’s latest line of approach ended, like the others, in a cul-de-sac. Rex refused to let himself be drawn; and Sir Clinton, recognising that it was hopeless to question him further, smoked in silence until a noise of boots on the parquet of the hall announced the arrival of Ledbury and his subordinates. Sir Clinton got up.
“You’re a young fool,” he said, in a tone completely devoid of heat. “But from what I’ve seen here, I don’t think you’ll come to much harm, if that’s any encouragement.”
If Rex had any intention of replying to this, he got no opportunity. The door opened, and Sergeant Ledbury appeared on the threshold. His little gimlet eyes passed from the white, sullen face of Rex to that of Sir Clinton, who had composed his features instantaneously as the handle turned. Only after that inspection did the sergeant look at the body on the floor. He went forward, knelt down, and subjected the corpse to a careful examination without saying anything. Then, after making a jotting or two in his notebook, he rose to his feet and spoke impersonally.
“Better take things in their order, p’raps. That maid in the hall seemed to know something about the start of affairs. Might begin with her, if there’s any place one can talk in. Not here, of course.”
He cast a glance at Francia’s body as he spoke, evidently to amplify the meaning of his last phrase. Then, moving to the door, he made a gesture as though ushering his two companions out into the hall. Rex obeyed mechanically; and Sir Clinton followed him. Ledbury waited until they were out of the room, then he called to Peel, who was posted near the front door, and put him in charge of the smoke-room.
Sir Clinton led the way to the drawing-room, followed by Rex and the sergeant. Apparently Mr. Scotswood had fulfilled his mission, for there was no one to be seen about the house. In a moment or two, Staffin appeared in answer to the sergeant’s summons. Ledbury looked her up and down critically as she came in—a process which did not seem to reassure her much. She threw a glance at Sir Clinton, as though begging for his support against the rigour of officialdom.
“Now, then,” said Ledbury in a tone which sounded like an attempt to ingratiate himself with the girl, “we’re not going for to bother you more than we can help, you understand? But we want to know what you’ve seen about this murder in there.”
He pointed crudely with his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the smoke-room.
The girl was obviously anxious to tell what she knew, but apparently she had difficulty in determining where her story should begin.
“Better start about lunch-time,” Ledbury advised, seeing her difficulty. “Just begin about lunch-time and tell us all you can remember.”
This seemed to give Staffin the help she needed.
“There was just the usual people at lunch,” she began. “Sir Clinton, there, Mrs. Thornaby, Master Johnnie, and Mr. and Mrs. Francia, and the two Miss Anstruthers.”
“Did you notice anything remarkable about them?” the sergeant demanded as he noted the names in his book.
Staffin shook her head.
“There was nothing different from other days. Later on in the afternoon, Mr. Scotswood and Miss Scotswood came in a car. They brought Mr. Brandon here with them. Then they all went down to the tenni
s-courts.”
The sergeant nodded encouragingly. Sir Clinton, with a faint touch of amusement, noted that Ledbury did not think it worth while to lick his pencil in dealing with this witness.
“The next thing I saw,” Staffin went on, “was when I went into the pantry opposite the smoke-room door. I was cleaning silver and the pantry door was a bit open, because it was stuffy in there with all this heat. I heard voices, and then Mr. Francia came past my door and went into the smoke-room. That would be somewhere about four o’clock, I should think; but I don’t know for certain.”
“It was four o’clock,” Sir Clinton confirmed.
“Then, in a minute or two, I heard Sir Clinton come down the stairs, and he went into the smoke-room too.”
Ledbury seemed to prick up his ears at this, and threw an involuntary glance at Sir Clinton. Their eyes met for a moment; then, at the sight of the smile on Sir Clinton’s lips, Ledbury looked disconcerted and turned back to the maid.
“They were in the smoke-room together for a minute or two, and I heard them talking,” Staffin went on.
“Ordinary voices, or angry?” the sergeant demanded, keeping his face averted from Sir Clinton.
“Oh, just ordinary,” Staffin answered.
“Quite ordinary,” Sir Clinton confirmed, his smile growing slightly more accentuated as he met the eyes of Ledbury. “I’ll tell you all about it in a moment, if you wish.”
“Well, what happened after that?” the sergeant demanded, as though to cover his annoyance at having mistaken the situation.
“Sir Clinton came out of the room again, leaving Mr. Francia behind.”
“Anyone else in the room except him?” Ledbury asked, as though he feared she might have overlooked something.
“Nobody that I knew of,” Staffin answered frankly.
“Nobody at all,” Sir Clinton testified. “He was quite alone when I left him in the room.”
“Well, what next?” the sergeant urged.
Apparently he was anxious to get away from the point, since he had betrayed himself in a slip.
“Not very long after Sir Clinton had gone out of the front door,” Staffin pursued, “I saw Mr. Brandon here go into the smoke-room and shut the door behind him.”
Ledbury swung round and studied Rex’s face with increasing interest for a second or two; but this time he was careful not to say anything which might betray what he thought.
“The next thing I heard,” Staffin went on in obedience to a gesture of the sergeant, “was the telephone bell ringing and then Mr. Brandon speaking. I didn’t hear what he said, of course, through the door.”
She paused, as though the next part of her story was harder to tell.
“After that, I heard a shot behind the door and a horrid noise—an awful noise . . .”
“Come, come now! None o’ that,” said the sergeant. “Just say what you heard and be done with it. You heard a noise? A cry, or what?”
“Somebody hurt and calling out,” Staffin described it. “And a noise like something falling on the floor.”
“A big thing? A man’s body?”
Staffin pulled herself together with an effort which evidently cost her a good deal. For a moment or two she seemed to be racking her memory for the exact details.
“Yes, a noise like a man falling in a lump. But there was another noise too, like . . . I can’t think exactly what it was like. Oh, well, like a brass candlestick falling, or something of that sort. That’s as near as I can remember it. I’d know it again if I heard it. That’s all I can say.”
Ledbury looked rather glum at this description.
“You’d better try to remember more about it, if you can,” he cautioned her. “Now, then, what did you do after that?”
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” Staffin admitted. “I came out of the pantry, and I must have walked over to the door of the smoke-room without thinking. And the next thing I heard was Mr. Brandon’s voice, quite loud it was and I could hear it quite plain. It said: ‘Go away! At once!’ Like as if he was hustling someone out of the room.”
“Quite so!” Ledbury said reflectively.
He turned sharply round on Rex, as though hoping to surprise something; but the set face which confronted him seemed to give him as much food for thought as any self-betrayal could have done. For some seconds he examined Rex’s features as though he wished to memorise them; then he turned away again and seemed to reflect before he spoke again.
“There’s a French window in that room. Was that open or shut when you went out, Sir Clinton?”
“Shut, I should imagine. Otherwise I’d probably have gone out by it instead of by the front door,” Sir Clinton answered. “I was on the way down to the boathouse, and the French window would have been the shortest way if it had been open.”
“Just so!” Ledbury agreed.
He turned back to Staffin.
“And what next?”
“I didn’t know what I was doing. I must have got my hand on the handle and turned it without thinking. The door opened, anyhow, and I looked in—just for a moment.”
She was shaken by a quiver like the symptom of St. Vitus’s dance.
“Well, what did you see?” Ledbury demanded, giving no time for further developments. “Come along now. You may as well get it over, and then I shan’t have to bother you any more just now.”
This promise seemed to give Staffin back her control.
“I peeped in. Mr. Francia was lying on the hearth-rug, all in a pool of blood. Mr. Brandon was over at the window, behind the chair Mr. Francia had been sitting in. He was looking round at me when I opened the door. Then he seemed to think of something, and he said: ‘Get out!’ Just like that. So I shut the door and ran. I expect I called: ‘Murder!’ or something like that. I know I was shrieking when I met Mr. Scotswood at the front door. He sent me off down to the lake for Sir Clinton, and I waved him ashore.”
Sir Clinton reflected that if all witnesses could give their evidence as well as this girl had done, police work would be very much simplified. She had omitted nothing essential; and she seemed to have fastened upon the really salient points in a very confusing series of events.
Ledbury put only one further question:
“When you looked in at the door, did you see whether the French window was open or not?”
Staffin shook her head.
“I didn’t notice it. I was in such a state I hardly noticed anything,” she admitted frankly.
“Just so!” Ledbury said. “Well, that’ll be about all we want with you, just now.”
Staffin needed no further hint. She turned at once and went out of the room. When she had gone, Ledbury swung round to examine Rex’s face again; but it was Sir Clinton whom he addressed.
“I’m not quite clear about this, sir,” he explained. “What were you and the deceased doing in the smoke-room?”
Sir Clinton gave him a brief account of the Anstruther girls’ sketches, and how he had left Francia engaged in reading the manuscript.
“Quite so! Now I begin to see what it was all about,” Ledbury said when he had finished. “And now, Mr. Brandon, perhaps you’ll give us your story. But I’ve got to caution you that you need not say anything to incriminate yourself. What you do say will be taken down by me and used as evidence against you.”
At this blunt declaration Rex winced. There was no mistaking its purport.
“Then I’ll say nothing,” he answered in a hard voice.
“I’ll make a note of that,” Ledbury answered, writing in his pocket-book. “Murder’s felony, and I can arrest without a charge made. You’ll have to come along with us.”
Rex seemed to have anticipated this. After Staffin’s evidence there was obviously nothing else to be expected. He threw a glance of inquiry at Sir Clinton, and apparently read in the answer a confirmation of Ledbury’s statement.
“Very well,” he said. “I’m ready.”
Ledbury summoned one of his constables and handed Re
x over to him with some instructions. When he had completed his arrangements, he caught Sir Clinton eyeing him ironically. The expression on the late Chief Constable’s face seemed to take him rather aback.
“Sorry to have to do it, sir. But it’s my duty, isn’t it? The case’s as plain’s a pike-staff.”
“Quite plain,” Sir Clinton conceded, with no attempt to conceal the possible double meaning in his phrase.
“Ah! Just so! You think so?” said Ledbury, with a tinge of discomfort in his tone. “Well, I’ll have a look at the smoke-room now.”
“You’d better see Mr. Scotswood,” Sir Clinton suggested. “Then you’ll have all the evidence of witnesses in your hands.”
The sergeant agreed, and Mr. Scotswood was summoned. He gave his account of what he had noticed when he burst into the smoke-room; and, as his narrative drew near its close, Ledbury evidently felt surer of his ground. He threw a look at Sir Clinton as much as to say that the case was now clearer than ever.
“There’s one thing I ought to add,” Mr. Scotswood wound up. “Neither Sir Clinton nor I could find the pistol anywhere in the room. In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t there.”
“So am I,” Sir Clinton threw in.
“We went over the place together, side by side,” Mr. Scotswood elaborated, “and, if one of us had missed it, the other would have been sure to find it. I was most careful in searching.”
“Just so!” Ledbury said non-committally. “We’ll need to have a look for it.”
At the door of the smoke-room, Mr. Scotswood turned away. Quite obviously he had no desire to re-examine the scene of the tragedy. When Sir Clinton and the sergeant were left to themselves, Ledbury’s first act was to subject Francia’s body to a minute inspection.
“Shot in the back it seems,” he said, looking up at last, “and the bullet’s made fair hay of him in front. Must have been a heavy one to do all that damage.”
“Or an expanding one?” Sir Clinton queried.
“Or an expanding one, as you say, sir,” Ledbury admitted after a pause for consideration. “Anyhow, the shot was fired in this room, that’s clear. I can smell the stink of the powder strong enough.”
Nemesis at Raynham Parva (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 22
