“Then the old will stands, Philip, and we shall both get our bit of money and Ellen will be all right. In any case, that silly old draft thing couldn’t count. But I must say it’s extraordinary,” said Claire, moving away from him altogether, and staring out over the river, “where the thing can have got to. Who can have any motive in hiding it?”
Philip looked round as though the very trees lent listening ears. He lowered his voice. “Of course, if–if Edward–if he had anything to do with this–I mean it wouldn’t matter how irrational it was …”
Claire was silent. She said at last: “Do you really think it was Edward, Philip? Do you really think he’s–well, funny in the head?”
“What other explanation is there, Claire? And what’s so terrifying is that if he did it, he’s still got that bloody strychnine; I mean, it’s terrifying, because he needn’t have any more reason to use that, than he had to kill Grandfather, so one can’t guard against it. I don’t know–I’m wondering if I ought to do something about getting him–Well–certified or something.”
“Certified? Edward?” cried Claire, horror-stricken.
“Well, my dear, the situation’s so frightful! One can’t just let things go on like this.”
“But certify him–our Edward?”
“Actually I don’t suppose he is certifiable,” said Philip. “Unless, of course, he did kill the old boy … Oh, God, I don’t know … But at least he ought to be under some supervision.”
“But, Philip, you wouldn’t hand him over to the police as a murderer?”
“No, of course not,” said Philip, helplessly. “And yet …”
“But if you had him–certified, or–or supervised–or any of those things, why it’s a plain admission that he did it. Oh, you can’t, Philip, promise me that you won’t …”
“Poor kid,” said Philip. “The Lord knows, I don’t want to do him any harm.” He looked about him uneasily. “You must be terribly careful, Claire, that’s all; we must all just be frightfully careful, and watch him; you girls mustn’t be alone with him … It’s just in case …” For how could one know that he was not there, near to them, even now; poor crazy boy, lurking behind the trees in the sunny little wood, crouching, ready with death in his hands, for any stray victim that might pass; or urged on by some hideous compulsion against himself or Claire. “You must be careful, promise me you’ll be careful, darling. They–they get very strong, often, and rather sort of–cunning …”
On the front lawn, Edward sat with his long legs spread out before him, earnestly making a daisy chain, with Brough’s granddaughter, Rosy-Posy, squatted beside him giving bossy advice, and Antonia staggering erratically about the grass, picking the pink and white heads off the flowers. Indoors, Bella, maddened by Ellen’s refusal to dither and weep, fretfully disarranged the careful heap of envelopes. “I must say, Ellen, I think it’s very unwise to let Philip go off with Claire like that; especially after what Edward said at lunch yesterday …” (Had it really only been yesterday?)
Ellen, inwardly flinching, took the envelopes irritably out of her hands. “A fine mess you’d be in, if I went off gooseberrying at this stage!” She added, half mocking at her own lofty attitude, half desperately sincere: “Besides–I wouldn’t condescend!”
Bella swerved over in defence of “the family.” “Claire is doing nothing underhand.”
“Oh, I’m saying nothing against darling Claire, Bella, don’t worry! If the only way she can get a husband is to go off with mine, and if she can get him, well, they’re both welcome to each other, that’s all. Far be it from me to spoil love’s not-so-young dream,” said Ellen airily, but she slapped the envelopes together and secured them with a very vicious snap of their rubber band. “All I ask is that my child and I shall eat.”
Bella looked at her curiously. She said slowly: “It would certainly have been awkward for you, Ellen, if Richard had signed away Philip’s legacy.”
Ellen raised her intelligent eyebrows. “Good gracious, Bella, you’ve thought out a Theory, all by yourself!” But it made her angry and a little afraid. She paid back the implication and with good measure, glancing out of the window where Edward sat innocently, long legs stretched out before him, “minding the baby” on the lawn. “I wonder if we’re wise to let Edward play with Antonia?”
Bella flamed scarlet. “I don’t know what you mean? What are you suggesting?”
“Only that with that thing of strychnine missing … And after all, Sir Richard is dead, isn’t he?”
“Are you suggesting that Edward killed his grandfather?”
Ellen shrugged. “I thought it was quite understood.”
“But he … You don’t believe he … Good God,” cried Bella pitifully, staring out to where the dark head was bent, intent upon the chain of daisies and buttercups. “I’d rather you accused me, Ellen, of such a thing, than that–that poor harmless boy …”
Ellen rattled pens and pencils tidying up the desk. “Well, perhaps it was you. That wouldn’t surprise me either.” She added sweetly: “After all, if Edward’s mad, he must have got it from somewhere–and you’re his grandmother!” and marched away down the front steps and scooped up her baby and carried it off upstairs, there to weep bitterly, lying face down on her bed, tears of self-pity and self-reproach, of anger, jealousy, and fear.
Murder! The big white house sprawled lazily in the sunshine, cloudless blue skies burned down upon green lawns, the air was sweet with the scent of roses and mown grass; and through the white house and across the green grass Murder stalked in the sunshine. Up in her bedroom, Ellen wept into her pillow. Down in the woodland, Philip and Claire kissed and clung, and could not keep the thought of a dead man’s money from their minds. Up and down the gravelled drive, Peta walked with her love and would not speak kindly to him because he had brought all this trouble upon them, “instead of just letting poor Grandfather be buried and not making any fuss.” On the marble terrace Bella walked listlessly, her pretty face swollen with tears of pity and loneliness and grief; and down on the lawn among the buttercups and daisies Edward grew weary of Rosy-Posy’s artless prattle and suddenly wondered what it would be like to stick a hypodermic needle into her, and whether it was himself, the real Edward, just thinking it to frighten himself, or whether it was his other self who had put the thought into his head–and whether he was mad, whether he was dangerous, whether he was already once a murderer …
That night over dinner, eyeing one another distrustfully, they kept up a brave pretence that it was all a mistake, that Grandfather had died a natural death, that there was some simple explanation about the missing strychnine which would soon explain itself. Next morning the Inspector brought the result of the post-mortem examination up to the house. An enormous overdose of coramine.
8
BELLA PREPARED for the inquest next day in her favourite role of Grande Dame; a rather pathetic attempt to continue the part she supposed Serafita to have played in the social life of the locality. The family recognized it with groans of mortification the moment she appeared in the hall in the hat with the cock’s feathers, an imposing affair of shiny black straw and a meaningless tangle of net.
“Darling, not your Marshall and Snelgrove!”
“It’s black,” protested Bella.
“Yes, but, Bella, it has the worst effect on you, it’ll absolutely wreck your chances with the jury …”
Bella ignored them. The hat made her feel good, it buoyed up her self-respect, it put her before herself and the world as what she surely was–a handsome elderly lady in a secure position in the County, backed up by Sir Richard March’s name and Sir Richard March’s wealth and family and beautiful country home. She started off down the drive, planting her feet firmly in their rather horrid new black shoes, Peta and Claire protesting on either side of her, Philip and Ellen and Edward trailing behind. A press photographer ran backwards before them and she assumed an expression of dignified reproach, bending the cock’s feather slightly forward in to
ken of mourning. “Noblesse obleege,” she said to Peta, who showed every sign of wishing to butt the photographer in his receding middle.
“I wish it wouldn’t obleege you to wear that hat; no wonder he wants to photograph us.”
They marched wretchedly into the village hall where a jury of seven was already wedged tightly into the makeshift jury box, their heads and shoulders sticking out over the top like toy wooden soldiers, not yet unpacked. Bella declared her intention to cease traffic from that day forth with Billock the grocer, Hoskins the butcher, and Matchstick, the man who sharpened the Swanswater knives. “Not Matchstick!” implored Peta and Claire on either side of her. “We shall never again get a knife-sharpener with such a heavenly name!” (To be sitting here at an inquest on Grandfather’s body, stared at by all these people, suspected perhaps of murdering him!)
Billock in the jury box stirred uneasily, seriously incommoding his all too contiguous neighbours. “We shall lose the ’Ouse, you’ll see! That Meakin and ’is police!” He glared angrily at the unfortunate sergeant held responsible for their presence in this position of trust. The Public of Swansmere, jabbing its thumbs into the lumbar regions of its neighbours, shuffled slowly into a couple of inadequate benches at the back of the hall, several of the older women bobbing involuntarily at sight of the Hat. “’Artnoon, m’Lady!”
“Good afternoon,” said Bella stonily, noblesse alone restraining her from throwing her parasol at them.
Little men in shiny blue or grey suits busied themselves about the Coroner’s desk with pencils and pens. A photographer climbed upon a table presumably to take some more shots at an original angle, of the Hat. “The widow was imposing in black,” scribbled such youths as the popular press had been able to spare from the slightly more absorbing topic of the war; on second thoughts, however, “imposing” seemed open to misunderstanding, and they scored it out and chewed at the tops of their already mutilated pens.
Mr. Bateman, the Coroner, was a solicitor from Heronsford, and was somewhat new to the job. He looked like a sly hippopotamus, a squat, heavy man with a thick neck and narrow, cunning, pale blue eyes. His hands were small and pink and dreadfully well manicured; he polished incessantly at his little, shining nails. At his entry, the Coroner’s officer gave an inarticulate shout, and they both sat down with a bump.
Cockrill had decided to let Mr. Bateman have his head. He felt that alone he was helpless against the united will of the family trying–obviously–to protect Edward Treviss from the consequences of his innocent crime. He wondered if they realized for a moment what it was that they were doing; if they believed for a moment that this was really murder, or if in their efforts to shield the boy, they were not really shielding themselves from the brutal recognition of the truth. Well, now he would have them up on the witness stand, in a public place, and see if the efforts of Mr. Bateman could wring anything out of them. Accordingly, he informed that gentleman that the police had complete confidence in his discretion and would not ask for any particular reticences or evasions; if Mr. Bateman saw fit to lead the jury gently to an open verdict, of course, that would suit very well …
Mr. Bateman led Claire through the story of the finding of the body. She gave it simply enough, but it was obvious that she was intensely conscious of the interest of the crowd. She walked back to her place, tossing her head a little, and as Peta said, “making mouths.” (“She can’t help it; she’s just self-conscious, that’s all. She can’t help showing off.”) Peta herself showed off dreadfully: but her showing off took the form of little breathlessnesses and hand flutterings and gabblings which rather attracted than alienated sympathy. “My dears, it’s too awful,” said Claire, scraping past them to her place. “Everybody staring at you–your mind goes an absolute blank.”
Philip, having described the appearance of the body and his first diagnosis, bore with equanimity what Peta would have called a Straight Talk from Mr. Bateman on the subject of the medical bag, left open and accessible in the drawing-room. “It’s all a question of familiarity. You do things in your own house that you wouldn’t dream of doing outside. At home, my bag’s kept on a chair just inside my surgery ready to be snatched up at a moment’s notice, on my way out. I don’t go about with it chained to me.”
“Surely you keep it locked?”
“The lock’s bust,” said Philip briefly.
“There is such a thing as having a lock repaired.”
“There’s such a thing as the war being on and not being able to get things done for weeks or months. I can’t spare my bag long enough; I can’t do without it.”
“So you are content, Doctor March, to leave lethal doses of deadly poison about the house, for anyone to pick up and use as they will?”
Philip refused to be ruffled. “Yesterday those were healing drugs; something goes wrong and suddenly they’re deadly poisons. A car is a lethal weapon if you knock somebody down with it and kill them; but you don’t go into fifty fits if you leave your car outside the house and it’s stolen.”
Argument with Doctor March appeared to be turning out an unprofitable investment. Mr. Bateman dismissed him and called Inspector Cockrill. Cockie had changed his fine white panama for a black bowler which, however, he had carried all the morning in his hand, to the great sorrow of his colleagues who did not for a moment believe that it belonged to him. He placed it tenderly on the ledge of the witness box, and automatically fished for tobacco, but controlled himself in time. He paid handsome tribute to the assistance offered him by the family in his investigations and to the fact that they had called him in from the first moment that suspicion had been aroused. Bella and the grandchildren looked down guiltily into their laps. Poor Cockie! If he only knew!
The lodge had been photographed, fingerprinted and closely examined for possible clues. “The only things of interest were a glass on the desk bearing no fingerprints except those of Sir Richard, and containing a few diluted drops of coramine; the pen in Sir Richard’s hand, which bore no prints but his own–he was clutching it when he died; and the extension telephone, up to the house, which also only bore Sir Richard’s prints. I was able to confirm to a great extent the movements of the people who visited Sir Richard on the evening that he died. The pen was brought down to the house by Mrs. Ellen March; the last person known to have used the telephone was Miss Peta March; and the glass was said to have been standing on a high shelf in the kitchen. Miss Peta March will be telling you about that in her evidence,” suggested Cockie, insinuatingly. His men had very thoroughly searched the house and grounds but as yet had found no sign of the missing draft of the will, or of the stolen strychnine and syringe. It was his opinion that someone had them hidden and was moving them about. The search continued. In his opinion the evidence of the footprints showed clearly that no one had been to the lodge after the paths had been sanded. Sir Richard had last been seen alive by Mr. Briggs, clerk to Mr. Stephen Garde, at a quarter to seven; that is to say, last seen by anyone outside the household, amended Cockie with somewhat heavy significance. The evidence of Brough, the gardener, had confirmed the visit of Mr. Briggs. Doubtless the jury would be hearing from them both …
But the jury could hardly wait to hear Miss Peta March on the subject of the glass from the high kitchen shelf. Packed tightly in their box, they turned like a hydra-headed monster to watch her fluttering progress to the stand. “Well, yes, the glass was in the kitchen. I went in there to rinse my hands under the tap and I noticed it. I supposed it had got left over from the last time Grandfather slept at the lodge; there was nothing else in the kitchen, not even a towel to dry my hands on.”
“Why did you not wash your hands in the bathroom where there was apparently soap and a towel?” asked Mr. Bateman, craftily, polishing away at his nails like mad.
It seemed so feeble to say that one just couldn’t think why one hadn’t; that one had drifted into the empty kitchen and turned on the tap and thought no more about it. “My hands weren’t very dirty; only a little bit dusty.
This is the sort of thing one does every day, only it isn’t significant until something like this happens.” It was like Philip and the medical bag.
“And you didn’t touch the glass?”
“No,” said Peta, surprised. “Why should I?”
“That will no doubt be for the jury to decide,” said Mr. Bateman, very grand. He examined the little pink nails. “There was no towel or cloth in the kitchen?”
“No, nothing,” said Peta. “It was absolutely bare; no curtains or anything. I had to dry my hands on the seat of my pants–well, my bathing-dress pants, you know, which was horrid because they were still damp themselves, from the swimming pool.”
Mr. Billock, Mr. Hoskins, and Mr. Matchstick looked down their noses while their minds cuddled greedily about the vision of Peta in her bathing-dress. A fine, well-developed wench for all she looked so slim. Mr. Bateman had a dear little friend in a tobacconist’s at Heronsford who was often what he called “kind to him,” so he was less susceptible to disturbance of this kind. Nevertheless, he did pause for a moment or two before continuing. “Could you, if you had wanted to, Miss March, have–er–interfered with this glass?”
“Interfered with it?” said Peta, startled. “How ever can one interfere with a glass? If you mean could I have taken it down from the shelf, yes, I suppose I could, though I’d probably have had to stand on my toes to reach up to it. It’s a pretty high shelf. I suppose the glass had been put up there some time, out of the way.”
Back among the family, Ellen and Claire were united for a moment in a paroxysm of hysterical giggling because “interfered” always made them think of newspaper accounts of girls who were found stabbed, strangled, mutilated, and naked, but not, the paper solemnly informed its readers, “interfered with,” and as Peta said, it did really sound peculiar when applied to a glass. Bella shushed them nervously and they gulped and were silent. Hostility descended upon them again like a shroud. Up in the witness box, Peta glanced over at them with a tiny, understanding gleam. “Was there any chair or other piece of furniture which you might have stepped on to reach the glass?” asked Mr. Bateman, steadily pursuing his course.
Crooked Wreath Page 9
