“I understand it quite clearly now, Mr. Vereker. So please commence.”
“Good. If I’m to help you, my services may be something like a dentist’s. You must screw up your courage. I’ve no spiritual anaesthetic I can administer beforehand. In the first place, were you in love with Sutton Armadale when he married you?”
“To start with, that’s what we call in the hunting field a ‘bullfinch’ with a slippery take-off. Let me pull myself together and take it at a canter.”
For some moments Angela Armadale was silent, her brow knit, her eyes fixed on the blue distance into which the rolling country faded southwards.
“It’s so difficult to explain,” she began hesitatingly. “I was twenty-eight at the time and really ought to have known exactly where I was. They say a woman’s desperate at twenty-nine, but that wasn’t the case with me. I had had innumerable proposals of marriage, but my outlook was perhaps too exacting. I’m afraid my views on men had been too much influenced by my reading. Instead of treating the novelist as a showman I’d treated him as a high priest. Even to-day when they allow themselves to be realistic about love, they grow stupidly romantic about intellect. There was ‘Ugly’ Norton, who was so handsome. He wrote infantile verses to me sprinkled with ‘dear heart,’ but his conversation was limited by the four walls of a stable. He was a frightful bore. ‘Tushey’ Vaughan, though otherwise lovable, drank too much and was secretly very religious. I nicknamed him ‘Gin and Jesus.’ He heard of it and never spoke to me again. Jim Cresswell was very jolly, but sprayed saliva when he used to tell me I was ‘weally the pwettiest gel’ he knew. Lawrie Beresford was ardent enough to be in love with me and at the same time keep some drab in town ‘on principles of hygiene.’ I didn’t care for those principles. Stanley Houseley’s a dear, but when he first kissed me I felt as if I’d been flung into impenetrable bush. So you see I was always a bit difficult to please. Then I met Sutton. He was considerably older than I, but I was very fascinated in spite of the fact that his nose grew hair. He was so wealthy and overpoweringly persistent. I surrendered. The rest of the story you know.”
“Are you in love with Mr. Houseley now?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid I shall never be passionately in love with any man. I have spasms of ardour which are always cooled by squirts of chilly criticism. I can’t help it. Cupid fitted me with a martingale.”
“He loves you?”
“I’m sure he does. Stanley’s affections are so deadly constant. Once I used to think he had no fire. I was mistaken; his apparent calm is only a matter of habitual control.”
“He’s going to marry you?”
“Yes. We decided on that months ago.”
“Ah, I see,” said Vereker. “You were heading for the Divorce Court?”
“I had determined that Sutton and I should end our relations one way or another. If he hadn’t given cause, I’d have steeled myself up to doing so.”
“Had he given cause?”
“Yes. He wasn’t aware I knew, but I had all the evidence necessary.”
“He was very fond of Miss Cazas,” suggested Vereker.
“You’ve guessed right first shot. As a matter of fact, Edmée came on the scene most opportunely. Sutton and I were irrevocably estranged when she appeared. I told him I was going to end matters, and asked him if he’d divorce me if I gave him cause. On this point he was obstinate as a mule. He was terribly conventional in an old-fashioned way and dreaded what he called ‘the odium of divorce proceedings.’ He was also a man of very violent temper when roused, and told me that, if ever he found out that any man had betrayed him, he’d shoot him like a dog. Things seemed utterly hopeless, and I’d come to the conclusion that I’d have to live with him for the rest of my life. I would never have consented to live with any man irregularly. I’ve always acted on the principle of head before hindquarters. Then Edmée shot across the ride. It may sound very dreadful, but I was so glad that I not only acquiesced but secretly helped her by keeping out of the way.”
“What’s your opinion of Miss Cazas?”
“She’s an enigma to me. At first I thought she wanted to arrange things so that Sutton would eventually marry her. This may have been her intention. Subsequently she may have discovered that Sutton wasn’t having any or wouldn’t fit in with her idea of being ridden with a loose rein. I don’t know. She then simply exploited him financially. It became a matter of kisses for cash. At this juncture I stepped in and consulted my solicitor about divorce proceedings.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Just a fortnight to-day.”
“Your husband knew?”
“I told him last Wednesday.”
“The day before his death! Do you think he committed suicide?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“Had you told Miss Cazas about your intention of divorcing your husband?”
“Yes, and said I hoped she’d be happier with him than I had been.”
“Was she pleased or otherwise?”
“She didn’t seem overwhelmed with joy. She asked me why on earth I wanted to divorce him, and explained that they managed these things much better in France. I told her we weren’t in France, and she merely replied, ‘Tant pis,’ and went off at once to talk matters over with Sutton. It wound up in fireworks; they hardly spoke to one another for the remainder of the evening. I have a suspicion he told her that he had no intention of marrying her, but I don’t know.”
“Did you hear anything during Wednesday night, or rather Thursday morning, which made you think that everything wasn’t all right?”
For some moments Angela Armadale hesitated before replying, as if carefully weighing her words.
“Yes,” she said at length; “at about three o’clock on Thursday morning I heard Sutton’s voice in Edmée’s room. Her suite was next to mine. The walls are fairly sound-proof, so that I couldn’t distinguish his words, but he was evidently blazing angry. He always bellowed on such occasions. The altercation was brief, and a few minutes afterwards I heard her door slammed violently and everything was silent.”
“You can’t explain why your husband was in Miss Cazas’ room at such an hour?”
“Sutton always ‘chewed the rag’ when he was thoroughly angry. He had evidently worked himself up to such a pitch that he could stand it no longer, and probably came down to renew the battle and get it off his chest.”
“Mr. Houseley didn’t stay here overnight?” asked Vereker casually.
“No. After tea he and I went for a stroll, and Sutton came upon us unexpectedly. Stanley had just kissed me at the moment, and of course there were explanations. I then told Sutton I was going to divorce him. Naturally, Stanley returned to town at once.”
“In his own car?”
“No. Medlicott, my chauffeur, drove him over to the station in my Hispano-Suiza.”
“Mr. Houseley’s car is a Rover Meteor, I believe?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Armadale, with curious hesitancy and a swift glance at Vereker.
“Now, Mrs. Armadale, I want you to be very frank with me. I’m going to ask you a very pointed question. Did you see Mr. Houseley again before your husband’s death?”
The question had the effect of an electric shock. Mrs. Armadale uttered a little exclamation of pained surprise, and sat for a few moments with a dazed expression on her face. Then, with a supreme effort, she replied in a voice husky with trepidation:
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“On the Nuthill road not a stone’s-throw from the entrance gates. You can see the exact spot from here.”
Vereker’s searching glance swept her face, only to find an expression of placid resolution thereon. With amazing swiftness, she had regained control of herself.
“By prearrangement, of course?” he asked.
“Certainly.”
“At what time was this?”
“It was exactly ten past two by the clock on Stanley’s car.
“Wer
e you long with him?”
“Only a few minutes. You’ll probably want to know the reason for our meeting, and I don’t see why I should make any further mystery about it. Before Stanley left for town, we had a very serious discussion about my plans for the future, and I told him I was going to leave Vesey Manor for good next morning. He asked me where I intended to stay, and I said I’d go and live with my aunt in Brixtow. He hinted that though it was the loveliest hunting country, it was too far away from town for his liking, and suggested my going down to stay with the Thorolds at Eastbourne. ‘Black’ Thorold is his brother-in-law. I agreed, and he arranged to fix things up on his arrival in town, return as soon as possible in his car, pick me up, and drive me straight away to Eastbourne. On working it out, he reckoned he’d be back at Vesey Manor about two o’clock in the morning, and said he would signal to me from the road by dimming his headlights. It may sound childish, but I was delighted with the idea of an elopement—I’m at times foolishly romantic—and I consented.”
“Subsequently the romantic touch faded, and you changed your mind?” asked Vereker coldly.
“Romance has always been a faith rather than a touch with me,” replied Mrs. Armadale, with a suspicion of tartness. “You’re inclined to take all your fences at a gallop, Mr. Vereker. My change of plan wasn’t due to a change of mind. After Stanley had left on Wednesday evening, my solicitor rang me up and asked me to meet him next morning. As the interview was imperative and he’s a very busy man, I agreed and decided to forgo the fun of an elopement. I tried to get on the phone to Stanley, but didn’t manage it. There was nothing left for me to do but tell him of my change of plan when he arrived at two in the morning.”
“You didn’t go down to Eastbourne to stay, after all?”
“No. After a confab with my solicitor it was decided that I should go to some friends of mine at Sutton Pragnell. He was of the opinion that it would be more diplomatic in the circumstances not to stay with Stanley’s relatives. I don’t know the fine points of divorce etiquette, but I submitted to his ruling.”
“After hearing of your change of plan, did Mr. Houseley go on to Eastbourne?”
“No, he went back to town immediately.”
“Did he say what time he got back?”
“About eight in the morning.”
“He took six hours to cover twenty odd miles,” commented Vereker, in a tone of surprise.
“He had a breakdown on the way, and poor Stanley knows nothing about machinery. Talking of his car, he said the brute first went lame in the off-fore, and after he had attended to this it was seized with something damnably like colic and wouldn’t budge. He didn’t know what to do, and declared if he’d had any chloral hydrate he’d have popped an ounce or two into the radiator by way of an experiment. Finally, he got the thing to go by accident, and managed to keep it running as far as Purley. There he garaged it and taxied home.”
“On returning to the manor, you went back to bed?”
“Yes, and slept soundly till Basil waked me on Thursday morning.”
“By what door of the house did you go out and come back, Mrs. Armadale?”
“By the drawing-room door on the terrace below us, and thence across the lawn and drive into the meadow.”
“Not by the door near the gun-room?”
“No. There are only two keys to that door. Sutton always carried one on him, and Dunkerley had charge of the other.”
“When you returned you neither saw nor heard anybody about the house? I have a suspicion that the burglary took place between two and three o’clock.”
“No; but there was one thing I really couldn’t account for. On returning to my room, I found that my light was on. I’m sure I switched it off before leaving.”
“You had switched it on while dressing?”
“I hadn’t undressed, but before going out I went to get a fur coat out of my dressing-room wardrobe.”
“In your excitement you may have overlooked the light,” suggested Vereker.
“That’s possible, but I’m almost certain I didn’t. I was particularly anxious not to attract attention, and I rarely lose my head. This burglary wouldn’t have happened if Sutton had followed my advice. I had always told him we ought to have a night-watchman or even two, as the Bravingtons have, but he didn’t like the idea—said it turned a house into a bank or warehouse.”
“After retiring to your room on the first occasion did you see any of the other guests in the house again?”
“No. Sutton opened my door at one o’clock and said good night very amiably for appearances’ sake. I never saw him alive again,” replied Mrs. Armadale.
Vereker was not slow to notice the slight catch in her voice.
“Did anyone else in the house know of your intention to elope during the early hours of Thursday morning?” “Yes. On Wednesday evening I asked my cousin, Aubrey Winter, to tell Sutton next day. I didn’t want to give the poor chap any more pain or trouble than I could possibly help. It was bad enough as it was.”
“Where did you keep your key of the library safe?”
“Usually in my purse. I sometimes hid it under my bedroom carpet when I didn’t wish to carry it about with me.”
“Has anyone ever seen you put it under the carpet?”
“No one to my knowledge. I always took jolly good care about that.”
“Did you wear your pearls on Wednesday?”
“Yes; during the afternoon, at the Flower Show prize distribution, and I locked them up myself in the library safe just before I went to bathe in the swimming- pool.”
“Was anyone in the library at the time?”
“Yes. Mr. Degerdon and Miss Cazas were hunting for a book. I asked them which one they were searching for, and Mr. Degerdon replied, ‘Dekker’s She knew her Business.’ They both laughed heartily, but I couldn’t see the joke. I think they were pulling my leg. Have you heard of such a book by a Mr. Dekker?”
“They were joking, I should say,” replied Vereker solemnly, and asked, “After locking up your pearls, Mrs. Armadale, where did you put your safe key that evening?”
“I slipped it into my jewel-case on the dressing-table in my bedroom. There was nothing of any great value in that jewel-case, because I had put all the other jewellery that Sutton had given me in the safe, knowing that I should never wear it again. I had told Sutton I was giving all his presents back to him.”
“You were being rather Quixotic, weren’t you?”
“It’s a matter of taste, I suppose, Mr. Vereker. I was doing my best to live up to my romantic faith.”
“Miss Cazas would doubtless have admired your estimable tenets had Mr. Armadale lived,” said Vereker dryly.
“Possibly,” laughed Mrs. Armadale in reply, “but one never knows. Edmée is the funniest mixture of unexpected fineness and mercenary vulgarity I’ve ever met. If Sutton had offered them to her, she might have flung the lot at his head with contempt, or she might have taken them and pawned the lot to pay off her debts.”
“Is she in debt?”
“Always. She calls them her ‘financial scapular,’ and says it’s only when you owe tradespeople money that they’re really courteous to you. You’ve not met Miss Cazas?”
“Not yet. I hope to very soon. A great friend of mine says she’s very fascinating.”
“She is. I warn you to be careful. And she’s really beautiful.”
“I’m very susceptible to beauty, Mrs. Armadale,” replied Vereker gallantly, “but I don’t think anything Continental can hold a candle to the dazzling fairness of our own English type.”
“Neither do I,” replied Mrs. Armadale, as a mischievous smile twitched at the corner of her lips and flickered in the shining blue depths of her eyes. “If there’s anything more you’d like to know and that I can tell you, just ring me up at Sutton Pragnell 44; or if you want to be very careful, just let me know where I can meet you in town. I want to get this horrible business over and forget it for ever.”
; “Thanks, Mrs. Armadale. There may be one or two points on which you may be able to help me, but I shan’t trouble you if I can possibly help it.”
Ralli and Houseley now returned to the solarium, and conversation for a while became general. Later, Ralli and Mrs. Armadale excused themselves. The former had expressed a wish that his aunt should accompany him to the library and check the items of jewellery which the burglar in his haste had omitted to take from the separate drawer in which they had been locked. It was an opportunity for which Vereker had been longing, and he decided to make use of it.
“Mrs. Armadale and I have been discussing the events of Wednesday night and Thursday morning—” he began.
“I’m quite aware of that,” interrupted Houseley, “and I’ve already expressed my opinion both to her and Ralli, that I think it’s most inadvisable to chatter about this business to people who’re not concerned. It’s bad enough to have to go through a mauling by the police without being questioned by a lot of meddling outsiders.”
“Your point of view’s excusable,” replied Vereker, ignoring this rebuff, “but you’re a bit wide of the mark in calling me a meddling outsider. Mere politeness—”
“Then in what capacity are you acting?” asked Houseley, turning abruptly and facing Vereker truculently.
“Acting for the Press, I think I can spare you all a lot of pain by suppressing ail sorts of irrelevant family history. Again, I’m a great friend of Inspector Heather, who is in charge of the police investigations. The police don’t always let the public know all their agents in such a business as this.”
“You’re a C.I.D. man in reality, then?” asked Houseley.
“I’d rather not answer that question,” replied Vereker, with an air of profound mystery which immediately had the desired effect.
“Ah, I take your point, I take your point,” said Houseley. “If there’s anything in reason you’d like to know, I’ll tell you—but with reservations, strictly with reservations, you understand.”
“I think you’ll be wise to leave out any question of reservations, Mr. Houseley,” said Vereker aggressively. “Your own position in this business isn’t exactly that of a popular hero. The police know that your relations with Mrs. Armadale, even before her husband’s murder, were rather more intimate than those of a friend.”
The Polo Ground Mystery Page 15
