‘When he said that’ – Hyland’s voice was pitched low – ‘did you understand him to mean–’
‘Yes, I did. He meant that Lucy had been his mistress. I don’t believe it now. It is just the sort of foul lie that the brute would tell. But at the time I believed it. He saw I did, and he turned away with a laugh. That laugh did it. I brought out my revolver. But I realized I mustn’t make a row. So I hit him on the back of the head as he was about to step back into the study. And the blow killed him, as I meant it to do.’
Hyland stood up. ‘And that is the whole truth, at last?’
‘It is the whole truth.’
‘It is a lie!’
They all swung round. Standing in the doorway, pale as the long white gown she wore, was Lucy Dromio. Hyland moved towards her. ‘Miss Dromio, I think it would be better–’
‘It cannot be other than a lie. Mr Gollifer can have had no such conversation with Oliver and then killed him. It is impossible.’
Lady Dromio too had risen. ‘Lucy, Lucy,’ she cried ‘–it is all too horribly true. Oliver was wicked. He was a wicked, wicked son. If only the others had come back to me! Oliver was wicked, and poor Mary’s son was tried and taunted by him beyond endurance. But we can do nothing to help Geoffrey now. To deny the truth is useless. All we can do is to try to comfort your – your mother, my dear.’
‘This is idle talk, mama.’ Lucy’s voice was at once hard and full of indefinable emotion. ‘I repeat that Mr Gollifer’s story is a lie – though told to what purpose, I do not know. I stood here –you none of you saw me – and heard him tell his story. Out on the terrace, he says, he quarrelled with Oliver and killed him. It is impossible.’
There was a moment’s silence – the girl’s words carrying a queer, bewildered conviction through the room. And it was Geoffrey Gollifer who spoke. ‘Lucy,’ he cried, ‘this is useless! Nothing can come of it but trouble to yourself. As for me, let them hang me if they will. I quarrelled with him, as any decent man would have done. I killed him with a rash blow–’
‘You did neither – or I would kill you now.’ Suddenly Lucy Dromio’s voice was simply passionate. ‘Who were you – queer half-brother though you are – to say what should stand between Oliver and me? And why must you now tell these meaningless lies?’
Appleby stepped forward. ‘Miss Dromio,’ he said quietly, ‘it is time to speak out. You declare that Mr Gollifer here cannot have quarrelled with and killed Sir Oliver. Why not?’
For a moment Lucy Dromio hesitated. She made a gesture that was at once helpless, baffled and strangely joyful. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘it is not Oliver who has been killed. It is a man strangely like him – but Oliver himself it is not.’
With a low moan, Lady Dromio dropped insensible to the floor. And at the same moment Geoffrey Gollifer, with a cry which might have been either rage or despair, leapt for the window and vanished into the night.
11
‘And just when we had it all taped!’ Hyland angrily paced the library to which he and Appleby had retired; he gave a vicious shove with his foot at certain mouldering folios of patristic learning which protruded from a lower shelf.
‘Well, you know, there had been triplets.’ Appleby was mildly reasonable. ‘And there was some evidence that one at least of them had been about. So perhaps we ought to have thought that the body was not really Sir Oliver’s at all.’ Appleby stared at the ranged books, obviously a man profoundly dissatisfied.
‘It’s almost incredible.’ Hyland came to a halt before the fireplace. ‘Dash it all, the corpse is in Sir Oliver’s clothes – the very clothes he sailed in.’
Appleby smiled. ‘Come, come, my dear chap. Corpses have been found in other people’s clothes before now. The question is – how long had this fellow been in Sir Oliver’s shoes?’
‘In his shoes?’ The small hours were making Hyland heavywitted.
‘Is this a brother who travelled back from America as Sir Oliver? Or did he only become Sir Oliver, so to speak, after he was killed out there on the terrace, or in the study? You know, Hyland, there are a great many possibilities in this.’
‘I don’t deny it. Too many possibilities by a long way. But at least that young fellow Gollifer–’ Hyland broke off and groaned. ‘They haven’t found him. He’s got clean away. Lord, lord, if there won’t be a row about that!’
‘Nonsense. The Chief Constable thinks the world of you, my dear fellow. But you were saying?’
‘At least that young fellow Gollifer is a shocking liar. It is impossible that he should have killed the wrong brother by mistake. The conversation he reports himself as engaging in could not conceivably have taken place with a stranger from America – and one who would have, presumably, an unmistakable American accent.’
‘That is true. But Gollifer may have conversed with one man and killed another – unwittingly, no doubt. He would still necessarily be a liar, but only as to the detail of what took place. He could not immediately have hit out at the man he talked to and quarrelled with. This is the bit he may be inventing.’
‘But why ever should he invent just that?’
‘To give his crime the appearance of a decent spontaneity. Dromio said something filthy, laughed, turned away – and instantly young Gollifer hit out at him. Suppose actually he let Dromio return unharmed to the study; suppose he then prowled about a bit, screwing himself up; suppose he finally crept into the study and attacked the man he took to be his enemy from behind. It makes a much nastier picture – particularly for a jury.’
‘I suppose that’s true.’ Hyland was dubious. ‘But – dash it all! – if he killed the wrong man, that wrong man had changed into the right man’s clothes.’
‘Yes – or was subsequently shoved into them. And then he was shoved into a most unnecessarily lighted fire. It must be admitted that the case has its obscure side.’
‘You couldn’t express it better.’ Hyland breathed heavily. ‘I may say that I have been involved in melodrama before. Melodrama does occasionally turn up in real life. But real life with two intertwined melodramas really is a bit thick. Sir Oliver had long-lost brothers. Now Geoffrey Gollifer turns out to have a long-lost half-sister. And all these people are mixed up, we just don’t know how.’
Appleby was filling a pipe. ‘Quite so,’ he said. ‘And moreover what may be called the nomenclature is distinctly confusing. The girl called Lucy Dromio is really Lucy We-don’t-know-what. The young man going by the name of Geoffrey Gollifer has, I suppose, legally no name at all. His mother is Mrs We-don’t-know-what. The dead man is almost certainly a Dromio, and his Christian name may be Oliver.’
‘Oliver?’ Hyland looked blank.
‘Certainly.’ Appleby struck a match. ‘For it isn’t known which two of the triplets were spirited away, and which was left to be the heir. But if we agree to continue calling Oliver the man who grew up with that name here, then the man who has been killed would appear to be either Jaques or Orlando Dromio. But in America, almost certainly, he has always gone under another name. Of course when one does get melodramas intertwining one must expect little complications of this sort.’
‘We’ll stick to the names under which these people have commonly gone.’ Hyland was dogged. ‘And we’ll work on your supposition that Geoffrey Gollifer crept into the study some time after the row he has described to us and killed the wrong man.’
‘Then where is the right man now?’
‘Sir Oliver? Heaven knows. Perhaps he was never here at all. Perhaps both long-lost brothers were here. Perhaps it was they who were seen by Mr Greengrave from his car; perhaps it was they who were heard by the footman talking in the study.’ Hyland checked himself and made an impatient gesture. ‘But no! that’s impossible. Only the real Sir Oliver could have taken and replied to Geoffrey Gollifer’s points during that row on the terrace. Unless, of course, Gollifer is inventing that too. By jove – do you know I believe that may be it? There was no row. Gollifer simply crept in and killed the man he took for Sir Oliver wit
hout a word. All the rest is simply his invention to set a better face on the matter – to show him as almost intolerably provoked.’
‘It’s a possibility.’ Appleby frowned. ‘But what about the telegram received by Swindle? Do you remember how it was signed – with a sort of confidential pet name of Sir Oliver’s? That suggests that the real man at least meant to come down to Sherris. And, on the whole, we are safer assuming that he did.’
Hyland nodded; he walked to the mantelpiece and peered despondently at a clock. ‘It’s nice to be safe somewhere. And at least we can be certain of one thing: we’ve got a murder on our hands. It’s not much, but it’s something.’
‘Two murders, surely. Don’t forget Grubb.’
Hyland groaned. ‘Now, what sense was there in that? Was he really going to let out something important about Sebastian Dromio? And did Sebastian Dromio really kill him of deliberate purpose? Could a man who was absolutely roaring tight be said to do such a thing?’
‘If he was roaring tight.’
Hyland sat down heavily. ‘Now, you don’t mean to suggest–’
‘Definitely I do. Grubb was hopelessly drunk, if you like. But Sebastian Dromio is a different matter. At a guess I’d say he was playing rather a deep game.’
‘Deep? It’s certainly likely to land him in a six-foot drop.’ Hyland laughed without pleasure. ‘But that he also killed Sir Oliver–’
‘Not Sir Oliver. Say a Dromio unknown. And it is, as you say, a possibility. So is the supposition that Geoffrey Gollifer did it. But there are difficulties in either case. If Gollifer’s mind worked so swiftly to think up extenuating fairy-tales why was he so dead set on confessing from the first?’
‘Because he knew Grubb had seen him and, not knowing that Grubb was dead, he believed it to be all up anyway. And the fact that he has bolted–’
‘Is uncommonly odd. He was anxious to give himself up; to take upon himself Sir Oliver’s murder. That looked much as if he were endeavouring to shield someone. But as soon as he heard that the dead man was not Sir Oliver he repented of his rashness. And at that, supposing – quite wrongly – that he had hopelessly incriminated himself by his confession, he cut and ran for it. Why?’
Hyland shook his head. ‘Heaven knows. But this is clear. If he was indeed shielding somebody he was shielding either the actual murderer or a person whom he believed – but in fact wrongly – to be the murderer. Now, take it that he genuinely supposed the dead man to be Sir Oliver Dromio, whom might he have believed to be the criminal?’
‘His mother, who had been blackmailed by Oliver. Or his half-sister – as he now knew Lucy to be – since she had just been terribly disillusioned about the character of Oliver, whom she passionately loved. Hardly an unknown brother from America. Geoffrey Gollifer could have no motive to shield a stranger.’ Appleby paused. ‘But although Geoffrey Gollifer has thrust himself so violently into the picture he is not really the person of prime importance at the moment. Where is Sir Oliver Dromio? It is reasonable to believe that he was here tonight. Where has he gone? And what did he do?’
‘Well, he didn’t get himself killed, worse luck to him. We were properly had for suckers over that.’
‘I suppose we were had? I mean, it has genuinely turned out not to be Sir Oliver’s body? It was the first identification which was mistaken, and not this second one?’
Hyland fiddled gloomily with his gloves; he had been carrying them round all night. ‘Not a doubt of it. There’s not a soul who believes it to be Sir Oliver’s body now. I can see it’s not, myself.’
‘Well, that appears conclusive. I was thinking, you know, that death can play tricks with the looks of a man. And, once the notion of “indistinguishable triplet brother” got floating round, mere suggestion–’
‘No doubt. But suggestion was working all the other way. Sir Oliver was expected home. His voice was heard from his study. Presently in that study a body was found dressed in his clothes. And the body was uncommonly like him. Notice what happened. The body was found by servants, and it was Swindle, a dim-eyed old creature, who first went hurrying round announcing the death of Sir Oliver. Then Sebastian Dromio had a look. He was, of course, more or less intimately acquainted with his nephew but like everybody else, he hadn’t seen him – except fleetingly, earlier in the day – for a good many months. Moreover he probably didn’t care a damn for him – and that’s important. The only person who did care was Lady Dromio, who insisted on going in, it seems, although at that time in a state of collapse, and who accepted the body as her son’s – I mean as Sir Oliver’s. Lucy Dromio they didn’t at that time let have a look. After that there was myself, who used to see Sir Oliver about Sherris Magna, and there was that young ass of a doctor, who was so proud of having sat next him at a dinner table.’
‘I see.’ And Appleby chuckled. ‘We ought to have thought, you know. As soon as the triplet business floated up we ought to have thought.’
‘No doubt. But the point is this. The deception – for clearly we must call it that – was discovered by someone who wasn’t thinking at all. The family doctor arrived – this old fellow Hubbard, who had been out at a confinement. He was taken straight to the study and the sergeant whom I left there stripped the sheet from the body. Hubbard said, “That’s not Sir Oliver.” And at that moment there was a stir in the hall. It was Mr Greengrave coming out of the drawing-room where we were having it out with young Gollifer. Hubbard behaved very sensibly. “Greengrave,” he called, “come in here.” And Greengrave went in. Remember that he hadn’t earlier accepted my invitation to view the body. So he looked at it for the first time now, and without Hubbard’s saying another word to him. “That must be one of the brothers,” he said; “it’s not Sir Oliver at all.”’
‘Pretty.’ And Appleby puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. ‘Your melodrama could hardly give you a more pat curtain to the second act. Do you know that before we left the study ourselves I had a look at the terrace and noticed that your sentry-going constable was gone?’
‘What the dickens do you mean?’ Hyland was startled.
‘The question is: did your sergeant go too, after we did? Did he find his vigil with those two bodies a little drear and did he slip out – like the prima-donna, you know, to recruit his flagging energies with bottled stout? What I mean is this. Were there a few minutes during which people operating from the terrace might have substituted a second body for the first?’
Upon Hyland, jaded and baffled, the effect of this diabolical suggestion was electric. He sprang to his feet, his face suffused with blood, strode to the door and flung it open. ‘Morris,’ he bellowed – and Sherris Hall rang to his voice – ‘Morris, come here at once!’
Appleby moved to a window and peered out. Quite soon it would be dawn.
Sergeant Morris appeared startled. Presumably he was not accustomed to being bellowed at. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘did I hear you call?’
‘Certainly you did. When Mr Appleby and I went to the drawing-room I left you in the study with the bodies. Have you left that room between then and now?’
‘I stepped into the hall.’
‘And why the–’ Hyland checked himself. ‘What made you do that, Morris?’
‘I thought I heard the ambulance, sir. We’ve been expecting it for some time now. So I stepped out to enquire and found that it was Dr Hubbard. The butler was just admitting him as I came into the hall. I had your instructions that he was at once to view the body – the two bodies, for that matter – so I took him back to the study. And, after that, I didn’t myself leave it.’
‘Good – very good, indeed.’ Hyland directed a triumphant glance at Appleby. ‘In other words, you can scarcely have been out of the room a couple of minutes all told. Is that right?’
‘Well, no. I can’t just say that, sir. You see, the first thing Dr Hubbard had to do was to make a telephone call about the case he had just left. There was a good deal of difficulty in getting through. So I waited.’
‘I see.�
�� Hyland’s weary voice trembled with suppressed irritation. ‘And is it too much to ask how long you waited?’
Morris considered. ‘Well, sir, it might have been a matter of ten minutes, all things considered.’
Hyland’s self-control broke down. ‘Hell and damnation!’ he cried. At this moment the library door opened to reveal Mr Greengrave. Beside him was a figure of equal gravity who was presumably Dr Hubbard. The two men paused doubtfully, Hyland’s exclamation ringing in their ears, and made as if to withdraw.
But Appleby beckoned them into the room. ‘It will be clear to you,’ he said to Dr Hubbard, ‘that we are the police. It might be called a conference. Please sit down.’
Mr Greengrave looked with mild reproach at Hyland. Dr Hubbard glanced round the room. ‘I hope,’ he asked dryly, ‘that all goes smoothly?’
‘I am beginning to feel that it does.’ Appleby knocked out his pipe. ‘But for whom? There is quite a question there.’
Hyland registered his disapproval of this pleasantry with something between a groan and a growl.
‘Has somebody’s plan been going forward very nicely step by step? What was agitating Inspector Hyland and myself when you came in was this. Is it possible, Dr Hubbard, that you and the police surgeon examined different bodies?’
‘Different bodies? But of course we did. The man Grubb–’
‘We are not thinking of that. It is with the other body that we are concerned. First, you see, a number of people declare that it is Sir Oliver Dromio’s, and later a number of people declare that it is not. Might both groups be right? Could there have been a substitution in the meantime? At the moment, I cannot make sense of the case on any other basis. And we have just stumbled upon a fatal ten minutes when something of the sort could have taken place.’
Dr Hubbard raised his eyebrows. ‘The inference from that would be that both Sir Oliver Dromio and a brother are now dead. And somebody has concerned himself with juggling with the bodies. Have you any notion as to who this person might be?’
A Night of Errors Page 14
