‘I suppose,’ said Rachel, ‘that means you’re going to shut yourself up again as soon as this is over? Really, I think you’re outrageous.’
Robert chuckled. ‘I know – aren’t I? And it’s not as if I enjoyed it.’ He regarded her quizzically. ‘I don’t know whether it affects other people that way, but I find I get so bored with my own mind. Writing a new play is like having a baby or going swimming: it’s only pleasant when it’s over.’
Nigel ate his breakfast alone, the meantime carrying on what he imagined to be a sane and objective survey of the facts. Sanity and objectivity, however, were impotent; no spark of enlightenment entered his head. What primarily puzzled him was the business of the ring: what possible reason could a murderer have had for putting it on Yseut’s finger after she was dead? His mind wandering, a number of Heath Robinson contraptions based on this fact peered over the mental threshold, and were hastily dismissed. Was Robert telling the truth when he said he had not been with Yseut on Wednesday night? Nigel thought not, but then it was really impossible to say. Why had Donald seemed so little surprised to hear of Yseut’s death? What was the significance of the radio? Of the fact that Yseut had been killed in Donald’s room? What had she been looking for there? Had Jean taken the gun, and if so, did that prove she was a murderer? Nigel realized that this internal catechism, faintly reminiscent of the dialogues between body and soul so popular in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, was totally valueless, and abandoned it in order to contemplate what possibilities there might be in Fen’s professed intuitive method. He concentrated on intuiting, allowing desultory impressions to invade his mind without order or sequence, and as a consequence felt more confused than ever. For a moment, indeed, he did think he had hit on some obvious single element which bound the whole business into a plausible pattern; but he was evidently intuiting so hard that it failed to penetrate his consciousness, and he was quite unable to recapture it. Sighing, he abandoned the attempt.
The first thing, in any case, was to go and see Helen. Rehearsal was not until eleven that morning, and she ought still to be at her rooms. He collected a mackintosh and set off through the rain towards Beaumont Street.
As he approached No. 265 he observed two vaguely familiar figures coming towards him. The mists of distance dissipating, they were revealed as Inspector Cordery and Sergeant Spencer, evidently bound on the same errand as himself. He met them, in fact, at the door.
The Inspector was in high good humour. He greeted Nigel with the patronizing benevolence of St Peter admitting one of the minor evangelists to eternal bliss. ‘Well, well, Mr Blake, it’s a small world!’ he opined tediously. ‘I dare say you’re on your way to see Miss Haskell, as we are?’
‘Of course, if I shall be in the way – ’ mumbled Nigel, unwilling to abandon the precedence which he felt a short head over the police had gained him.
‘Well, sir, come up with us if you feel inclined. Only I must ask you to let us handle this our own way, and not to do any interrupting, while we’re there.’
Nigel solemnly expressed his approval of this arrangement, and they went in and upstairs, Nigel and the Inspector jostling uneasily for first place on the narrow staircase.
Helen was in her room, writing letters. It was a large room, light, airy, and meticulously clean and tidy, and although most of the furniture and ornaments were not hers, she had succeeded, as women always can, in impressing on them the stamp of her own individuality without any striving after effect. Beyond that, Nigel noted, there was also the generic aspect: it was unmistakably a woman’s room, the reason being – thought Nigel, succumbing to the masculine habit of analysis – the number of small objects which it contained. Unmistakably feminine – he thought of Chaucer’s description of Cressida –
But alle her limes so well answeringe
Weren to wommanhode, that creature
N’as nevere lasse mannissh in seminge.
As Chaucer rejoiced in the transcendental, the surpassing womanliness of Cressida, so he rejoiced in that of Helen. He looked at her grave, child-like face, the soft waved silk of her hair, and was lost. He made noises of greeting in the back of his throat, to which she replied solemnly.
Even the Inspector, Nigel noticed with ridiculous pride, was manifestly taken with Helen. His manner became as soothing as his rather bird-like physiognomy permitted. To Nigel’s surprise, it was with a charming natural courtesy that he expressed his regret for what had happened, and his apologies for troubling Helen so early.
‘I knew you’d be wanting to get off to rehearsal, miss,’ he said, ‘so I thought we’d get this troublesome business over with as soon as possible. A good deal of it’s routine, you’ll understand.’
Helen nodded and motioned them to sit down. ‘I’m afraid you’ll think me a little callous, Inspector,’ she said. ‘But Yseut and I never got on well – never knew each other well, in fact – and she was after all only my half-sister. So although naturally this appalling business has been a shock, I can’t honestly pretend I feel it as a very personal loss.’
The Inspector, after a moment’s consideration, appeared to find this view comprehensible; doubtless standards acquired in childhood by the reading of fairy tales, in which half-sisters are invariably flies in the ointment, still remotely affected his outlook. ‘Well, that’s none of our business, miss,’ he said, and added illogically: ‘though naturally we shall have to ask one or two questions about it. I wonder, now, if you’d mind giving your fingerprints to Spencer here?’
‘Again a matter of routine, Inspector?’ asked Helen mischievously. The Inspector ventured a responsible-looking smile. ‘That’s right, miss,’ he said.
Spencer, who had on entering cast a desperate glance at the formidable battery of cosmetics laid out on the dressing-table, became apologetic. ‘I’m afraid this is going to make a bit of a mess on your fingers, miss,’ he said.
‘Go ahead, Sergeant,’ said Helen. ‘As an actress I’m used to having horrible things painted on all over me.’ The remainder of the proceedings went through in silence.
‘Now, miss,’ said the Inspector, ‘we shall have to have a look at your sister’s room.’
‘Oh, yes. Next door to here, on the left. She always kept everything unlocked, so you shouldn’t have any difficulty. Shall I come?’ She half rose.
‘Er – thank you, no, miss. In point of fact, Spencer was sent round here last night to lock it up until we could have a proper look at it. You didn’t, I suppose, try to enter your sister’s room at any time last night or this morning?’
‘No, Inspector, I didn’t, so you won’t find any of my fingerprints on the knob.’
‘Ah – exactly. Spencer, go and take a look round. You know what we hope to find, don’t you?’ he added sinisterly.
Spencer, who had not the least idea, grinned affably and went out. The Inspector said casually:
‘So your sister was going to alter her will?’
Nigel looked quickly at Helen, but she replied with perfect calm: ‘So she told me at the party the other night. She was to have gone up to see her solicitor today. I believe Nick Barclay was eavesdropping at the time, and I guessed he’d tell you.’ The Inspector looked so crestfallen that she hastened to add: ‘Not that I wouldn’t have done in any case.’
‘In the circumstances, miss, it looks a bit queer.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Helen tranquilly. Nigel, mindful of his vows of silence, projected a burst of telepathic applause in her direction.
The Inspector, a little taken aback, tried a new tack. ‘Do you know who was to be the new legatee?’
‘I really haven’t the faintest idea. She had no close relations besides myself, and very few friends. What always astonished me was that she didn’t alter it before, considering how little love there was between us. Not that it mattered as far as I was concerned: I’ve no particular desire for more money than I can earn, and I’d no reason to expect that she’d die before I would, anyway. She only told me about it
out of sheer malice – which somewhat misfired for the reasons aforesaid.’
‘The question of the will will have to be confirmed, of course. But I’m right in saying you are now a comparatively rich gi – woman, Miss Haskell?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Ah. Do you know the name of your sister’s solicitors?’
‘Not the faintest idea. We never talked about money. She never offered me any, and I never tried to borrow any.’
‘Doesn’t it strike you as curious,’ said the Inspector, ‘that your sister didn’t live – well, a little more up to her means? That she didn’t take a house here, for example, or live in an hotel?’
‘I don’t think even Yseut would have had the cheek to do that with me about the place,’ said Helen drily. ‘She made herself pretty comfortable here, of course; but I think she must have enjoyed hoarding money, considering she spent most of her time industriously milking young men with incomes about twenty times smaller than her own.’
‘Come, come, Miss Haskell!’ said the Inspector. But he said it absently; it was obvious that his mind was on other things. After a while he took from an envelope the ring that had been on Yseut’s finger and showed it to Helen. ‘Did this belong to your sister?’
‘That? Heavens, no. It be— What has that got to do with Yseut’s death?’
‘To whom does it belong?’
Helen was reluctant. ‘If you must know,’ she said, ‘it belongs to Sheila McGaw, our producer. It’s always been a standing joke in the theatre, it’s such a grotesque and appalling thing. But—’
The Inspector nodded sagely. ‘Just wanted confirmation on the point, miss. Miss McGaw has already admitted to ownership of the ring. Says she left it two days ago in one of the dressing-rooms. It seems,’ he added heavily, as though the assertion required some peculiar extension of the powers of belief, ‘that anyone, inside the theatre or out of it, could have walked in and made off with it.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Helen. ‘There’s no stage-door keeper, you know.’
‘Just so. If Miss McGaw is telling the truth,’ the Inspector added kindly to Nigel by way of exegesis, ‘that means we’re exactly where we were before.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ said Helen. ‘What’s the ring got to do with it?’
‘It was found on your sister’s finger, miss. And the evidence suggests that it may have been put on after death.’
‘Oh!’ Helen was suddenly and unaccountably silent.
‘And now, Miss Haskell, can I have a brief account of your movements between six and nine last night?’
‘Movements. Well, there weren’t many. I left here to go to the theatre about half-past six, made up, went on at the beginning of the play – that’s at a quarter to eight – was off again about ten minutes later, sat in my dressing-room and read, went on again about a quarter to nine—’
‘Just a minute, Miss Haskell: do I understand you to say that you weren’t on the stage between 7.55 and 8.45?’.
For the first time Helen looked frightened. Nigel had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach; there was every reason – psychological, factual, evidential – why Helen should not have committed the murder – in his wildest dreams the thing would have been inconceivable – and yet he could not repress it.
‘Yes; that’s right,’ said Helen.
‘And do you share your dressing-room with anyone?’
‘Yes, in the normal way; but not this week; the girl I share with isn’t in the play. You mean I could have – slipped out without anyone knowing? I suppose I could. I can only say I didn’t.’ She recovered a little of her self-confidence. ‘Certainly it would need a motive at least as strong as murder to make anyone take off make-up and put it on again half-an-hour later.’
It was at this point that Spencer returned, but his information was meagre; he had found no papers except a few personal letters of no importance and an address-book containing the address of Yseut’s solicitor (which the Inspector pocketed).
‘Apart from that,’ he said, ‘only the usual feminine artillery – begging your pardon, miss.’ Helen gave him a smile in which humorous appreciation and mild flirtatiousness were mingled in exactly the right proportions.
The Inspector got to his feet. ‘Well, I think that’s all, Miss Haskell, thank you very much,’ he said. ‘Will you be wanting to see your sister at all?’ Helen shook her head. ‘Ah. Well, in the circumstances I think you’re wise. You’ll be required to identify the – her at the inquest, I’m afraid. That will be next Tuesday: we can’t have it before because the coroner and the deputy-coroner have succeeded in being away at the same time.’ He smiled sweetly at these happy evidences of incompetence in high places. Then, turning to Nigel, said in a lower voice: ‘I don’t mind telling you, sir, that the bullet which killed the young lady has been identified as coming from the gun we found.’ Nigel contrived to look suitably impressed at this useless piece of information; if Yseut had been murdered, then the murder seemed equally impossible from whatever gun the bullet had been fired.
‘Well,’ continued the Inspector, ‘I’ll just take a look round the other room, and then I’ll be off. And I don’t mind telling you,’ he added kindly, ‘that my view, despite certain troublesome points, is that the thing was suicide. That,’ he emphasized, ‘is the official view.’ He appeared to be hinting darkly at the perniciousness of unofficial goings-on. Then, with a final affable nod, he left, Spencer and his apparatus trailing in his wake.
Nigel turned to Helen. She was a little pale. They looked at one another in silence for a moment; then Helen said ‘Darling’ and put her mouth to his.
10. Blooming Hopes Forfeited
What could possess you, in a critic age,
Such blooming hopes to forfeit on a stage?
And was it worth this wondrous waste of pains
To publish to the world your lack of brains?
Churchill
It must have been at least ten minutes later that they heard the rattle at the window. Nigel went over, opened it, and looked out. Gervase Fen, Professor of English Language and Literature in the University of Oxford, stood below, gazing mournfully at a grating through which the pencil he had thrown at the window had vanished beyond recovery. When he looked up, however, he appeared to be in his customary high spirits. He was muffled in an enormous raincoat and had on an extraordinary hat.
‘Can I come up?’ he shouted. ‘Praise be to God, I’ve missed the Inspector and his minions. I must see Helen. I don’t particularly want to see you,’ he added as an afterthought.
Nigel waved an invitation, banging his head on the window-frame, and withdrew, swearing frightfully. Fen disposed of the stairs four at a time, and was in the room by the time he turned round again.
‘You are old, Father William,’ said Nigel, put out of countenance at this athletic display.
‘All morning,’ said Fen without preliminary, ‘I’ve been going about in the wake of the good Inspector, comforting those he has affrighted, soothing those he has annoyed, and generally collecting a great deal of valueless and irrelevant facts.’ He paused, resigning himself to the exercise of politeness, and beamed at Helen. ‘Well, how are you, my dear? I’ll spare you the condolences, because I know they aren’t necessary.’
‘Bless you, Gervase,’ said Helen lightly.
‘How long have you two known one another?’ said Nigel suspiciously. ‘And do you want to be left alone?’
‘It’s a Wahlverwandtschaft,’ said Fen. ‘Isn’t it, Helen?’
‘Stop this abominable flirting,’ said Nigel with asperity, ‘and tell us how the patient is this morning.’
‘Oh, much the same as last night.’ Fen collapsed heavily into a chair. ‘One or two new things have come to light, though. It’s a very complicated affair: wheels within wheels.’ He nodded mysteriously.
‘I suppose you realize,’ said Helen, ‘that I don’t know the first thing about how my sister was murdered? Suppose one of you tells me the de
tails, here and now.’
Fen suddenly became grave. ‘You do it, Nigel,’ he said. ‘It may help me to get things a little clearer in my own mind.’
So Nigel went over those puzzling, delusive, improbable facts once again. No light came to him in the telling; and when he had finished he asked Fen for additions and comments. Fen paused for a moment and lit a cigarette; holding it between nicotine-stained fingers, he gestured vaguely.
‘You know, of course,’ he said, ‘that the bullet did come from the gun we found? And that the ring is the property of Miss Sheila McGaw, who very carelessly left it lying about in a dressing-room?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Nigel impatiently. ‘We know all that.’
‘ “Mr Puff, as he knows all this, why does Sir Walter go on telling him?” ’ Fen quoted irrepressibly. ‘However: the point,’ he reminded himself sternly. ‘One or two other things may and should come up during the course of the day. You want comments. As regards the general set-up, contemplate this: suppose that each of the suspects in turn has committed the murder, and then consider which of the others, having seen that person commit the murder, would be inclined to protect him – or her.’
‘Do you mean two people are in it?’ asked Nigel.
‘Oh Lord, no: nothing so dismal; all the unaided work of one person. But do as I say: think.’
‘Well,’ said Nigel slowly, ‘I suppose Rachel would protect Robert, and vice versa; Jean would protect Donald – I don’t know about the other way round, but I’m inclined to think he would protect her as well; Nicholas might protect anyone, for the sheer devilment of the thing, but most likely Donald; and this McGaw woman – I don’t know about her.’
‘Ah!’ Fen seemed highly pleased. ‘And now, the crime itself. Concentrate on the following points:
‘(1) the fact that the wireless was playing the Meistersinger overture, followed by Heldenleben – a rich Teutonic concoction;
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