She called out to him: ‘Are you sure you never appeared in Grand Opera, Joe? What a Siegfried you’d have made! Figure and all!’
‘Naughty, naughty!’ he replied, with an archness which made her understand Stephen’s brutality to him. ‘Tilda dear, are you dressed yet?’
‘Nearly. Why?’
‘Don’t go down without me! I’ve got an idea!’
‘You’re not laying your head together with mine, Joe: don’t think it!’
He only laughed at this, but he must have kept an ear cocked, for when she opened her door a few minutes later, he instantly emerged from his room, rubbing his hands together, and saying gleefully: ‘Ah, you can’t fox your old uncle, you bad girl!’
‘Let me point out to you, Joe, that you’re not my uncle, and that even my best friends don’t call me a girl.’
He linked arms with her. ‘Wasn’t it the Immortal Bard who wrote, To me, dear friend, you never can be old ?’
Mathilda closed her eyes for an anguished moment. ‘If we are going to quote at one another, I warn you, you’ll come off the worst!’ she said. ‘I know a song which runs, Your parents missed a golden opportunity: They should of course have drowned you in a bucket as a child.’
He squeezed her arm, chuckling. ‘Oh, that tongue of yours, Tilda! Never mind! I don’t care a bit! not a little bit! Now, just you listen to the plan I’ve made! You’re going to play Piquet with Nat after dinner.’
‘Not on your life.’
‘Yes, yes, you are! I had thought of Bridge again, but that would mean Mottisfont, and he doesn’t seem to be a very strong player, and you know how seriously Nat takes his game! And then I suddenly remembered those grand battles you and he had the last time you stayed here, and how much he enjoyed them. I suggest that after dinner you should challenge Nat to a rubber, while I keep the others amused in the billiard-room. Charades or Clumps, or one of those other good, old-fashioned round games.’
‘If the choice lies between Piquet and a good, old-fashioned round game, you’ve sold your idea, Joe. I’ll co-operate.’
He beamed with gratitude, and might, she felt, have patted her on the back had they not by this time reached the drawing-room.
Neither Stephen nor Mottisfont had as yet come downstairs, but the other three guests had assembled, and were standing about, drinking cocktails, while Maud, who said that she never touched spirits, was hunting ineffectively for the Life of the Empress, which she remembered having laid down somewhere, though she wasn’t sure where. She rather unwisely asked Paula if she had seen it, and Paula, who was wrapped in gloomy reflection, came to earth with a start, and a gesture of insupportable irritation.
‘I?’ she said. ‘What, in God’s name, should I want with your book?’
‘I only wondered, dear,’ said Maud mildly. ‘I remember having it here after lunch. Or did I take it up with me when I went for my rest?’
Paula threw her an exasperated glance, and began to pace about the room, once more wrapped in her dark thoughts.
Valerie, after making several vain attempts to flirt with Roydon, who seemed as dejected as Paula, flounced over to the fire, looking sulky. Here Joseph joined her, paying her a few fulsome compliments, and really doing his best, Mathilda thought, to entertain her.
But Valerie did not want to flirt with Joseph; Valerie was finding the party very dull, and since she did not belong to a generation trained to be polite to its elders she snubbed Joseph, and told Maud that she hadn’t seen her book and wouldn’t know it from another if she did see it.
Roydon brought a cocktail to Mathilda, and lingered undecidedly beside her. After a few desultory remarks, he suddenly said in a burst of confidence: ‘I’ve been thinking over what you’ve said, and I’ve come to the conclusion you’re right. I shall try it out again. After all, I haven’t tried Henry Stafford. He might like it. He put on Fevered Night, you know, and it only ran for a week. I shan’t bother about backers any more. You’re quite right: the play is strong enough to stand on its own legs.’
Mathilda could not recall having made such a statement, but she was glad that Roydon, who, so short a time since, had been in despair over Nathaniel’s refusal to back his play, had recovered his optimism, and she cordially applauded his decision. Edgar Mottisfont then came in, saying that he hoped he hadn’t been keeping everyone waiting, and was chatty, in a determined way, until Joseph asked him if he had seen Nat or Stephen. This seemed to bring the memory of his interview with Nathaniel unpleasantly to mind, and he said No, he hadn’t seen either of them, and relapsed into a depressed silence.
Stephen lounged in a few minutes later, similarly taciturn, and everybody glanced at the clock, and wished that Nathaniel would hurry up.
At half-past eight, Sturry appeared to announce dinner, saw that his master was not present, and went away again, looking affronted. Joseph said hopefully that he was sure Nat would be down in a minute, but when ten minutes had elapsed, he said that Nat must have forgotten the time, and suggested to Stephen that he should go upstairs to fetch his uncle down.
Stephen was pouring himself out another glass of sherry, and replied with his customary brusqueness that if Joe was so anxious for Nat’s presence he had better go and fetch him for himself.
‘Come, come, Stephen!’ said Mottisfont. ‘Not very civil of you, eh, my boy?’
‘Oh, I don’t pay any heed to that old bear of a nephew of mine!’ Joseph said sunnily. ‘Stephen and I understand one another. Paula dear, suppose you were just to run up, and tap on your uncle’s door?’
‘No, thank you!’ Paula said, with an angry little laugh. ‘I’ve already tried that, because I wanted to speak to him, but he wouldn’t even answer.’
Stephen grinned. ‘No flies on Uncle Nat. Let’s go in to dinner.’
Valerie looked as though Nathaniel’s absence from his board would be a relief to her, but said: ‘Oh, but we can’t, without Mr Herriard, can we?’
‘What a nice sense of convention you have, my pretty!’ said Stephen.
‘You’re a set of lazybones!’ Joseph told them. ‘I see I shall have to trot up myself.’
‘I didn’t phrase it quite like that, but you’ve interpreted my meaning correctly,’ said Stephen.
Paula gave an unwilling laugh, but said, as Joseph left the room: ‘You’re in a sweet mood, brother!’
‘Matching yours, sister,’ he replied, smiling at her with an amiability belied by his shut teeth.
‘I think I’m suffering from an overdose of Herriard,’ said Mathilda.
Maud, who had abandoned the search for her book, and was seated in her usual place beside the fire, looked up fleetingly from Stephen and his sister to Mathilda. Her face was expressionless, but she moved her plump little hands, clasping them in her lap rather tightly.
‘I wonder how you stand it, Maud,’ Mathilda said.
‘I’m used to it, dear,’ Maud replied.
Joseph’s voice was heard calling to Stephen from the head of the stairs. ‘Stephen, old chap, just come here a minute, will you?’
Edgar Mottisfont said: ‘Oh dear! I hope nothing’s wrong!’
‘What should be wrong?’ said Stephen, strolling to the door. ‘What do you want, Joe?’
‘Come up, my boy, will you?’
He shrugged, and went out.
‘What can be the matter?’ wondered Valerie. ‘Do you suppose Mr Herriard’s ill, or something?’
‘Ill? Why should he be? He was perfectly well when I saw him last,’ said Mottisfont.
‘My lumbago,’ murmured Mathilda.
Stephen, leisurely mounting the stairs, found Joseph, and Nathaniel’s valet, Ford, standing outside Nathaniel’s door. They both looked worried. Stephen said, ‘Well, what’s wrong?’
‘Stephen, my boy, I don’t quite like it,’ Joseph replied. ‘Nat doesn’t answer my knock and Ford tells me he didn’t answer his, half an hour ago.’
‘So what?’ retorted Stephen. ‘Perhaps he’s fed up with the human race,
and who shall blame him?’
‘Don’t joke, old chap! I’m afraid something must be wrong. I think we ought to break down the door.’
‘There isn’t a sound to be heard, sir,’ Ford said, his ear to the crack. ‘I’ve called repeatedly, Mr Stephen.’
Stephen raised his brows. ‘Oh? Uncle Nat! Uncle Nat, are you all right?’
There was no answer. Frowning, Stephen set his shoulder to the door. Under the combined efforts of himself and Ford, the lock burst at last, and both men were precipitated into the room.
It was a large, wainscoted apartment, with a four-poster bed, and heavy black oak furniture. The curtains had been drawn across the windows, and the lights were turned on. A red fire glowed in the hearth, and not far from it, beside a ladder-back chair, Nathaniel Herriard lay on the floor, with his head on his arm, as though asleep.
‘Good God, he must have fainted!’ Stephen exclaimed, striding forward, and dropping to his knees beside Nathaniel. ‘Get some brandy, Ford! Don’t stand there staring!’
Joseph came bustling up in a twitter of concern. ‘Oh dear, how can this have happened? Nat, old man, Nat!’
‘It’s no use yapping at him,’ Stephen said, looking rather white. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Stephen!’ gasped Joseph. ‘Dead? Nonsense! He can’t be! He’s fainted, that’s all!’
Stephen rose from his knees. ‘Feel him,’ he said crudely.
‘No, no, no, I won’t believe it!’ Joseph stammered, in his turn kneeling beside Nathaniel’s body, and picking up one of his lifeless hands. ‘Fetch a mirror! If we hold it in front of his lips –’
‘You fool, can’t you see he’s dead?’ Stephen snapped.
Joseph gave a moan, and began distractedly to chafe the hand he held. ‘But how could he be? He wasn’t ill, Stephen! Nat, my dear Nat!’
‘I don’t know. Stroke, I suppose. What do we do now?’
‘A doctor, quickly! No, no, he can’t be dead!’
‘Yes, I suppose we ought to send for a doctor,’ Stephen said, his voice jumpy under its studied nonchalance. ‘Ford had better ring up. Cheerful Christmas party, yours, Joe.’
‘Don’t!’ Joseph begged, in broken tones.
The valet came hurrying back into the room with the brandy decanter, and a glass, but was checked on the threshold by Stephen, who said: ‘That won’t be wanted. He’s dead. Go and ring up his doctor, will you?’
‘Dead, sir?’ said Ford, turning a sickly colour. ‘Not the master, Mr Stephen?’
‘Who else, fool? On second thoughts, you can give me that brandy. Go and get hold of a doctor, and be quick about it, see?’
‘Ford!’ Joseph said, in a strangled voice. ‘Say nothing of this to anyone!’
‘Why not?’ demanded Stephen. ‘They’ve got to know. Not proposing to carry on with your blasted festivities, are you?’
‘Stephen, Stephen, you are in the presence of death!’
‘That’s what I told you,’ Stephen replied hardly, pouring himself out some brandy. ‘Unnerving, isn’t it?’
‘Go, Ford!’ Joseph said. ‘Just tell Dr Stoke that Mr Herriard has met with an accident, and beg him to come at once!’
‘Why the euphemism?’ enquired Stephen, as the stricken valet withdrew.
Joseph said, hushed: ‘Come here a moment, my boy. It wasn’t a stroke. Oh, my God, Stephen, Nat has been murdered!’
‘Have you gone mad?’ Stephen demanded, the brandy half-way to his lips.
‘Look!’ said Joseph, holding up his hand.
The palm of it was stained with blood. Stephen set down his glass with a jarring sound on the mantelpiece, and came back to Nathaniel’s body. ‘How – ? Where – ? What the devil are you driving at?’
Joseph dragged his handkerchief from his pocket, and passed it over his face. ‘I was trying to straighten him,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I felt something sticky on his back. He’s been stabbed, Stephen! My brother Nat!’
‘Damn it, he was in here with the door locked!’ Stephen said. ‘He can’t have been stabbed!’
‘Look!’ Joseph said, averting his face. ‘You must forgive me, but I can’t. Stupid of me, but I can’t. Not again!’
‘The brandy’s on the table,’ Stephen said, turning Nathaniel’s body on to its face. ‘My God, you’re right!’
Joseph rose from his knees, tottered to the table, and sank into a chair by it, dropping his head in his hands, and groaning. Nathaniel’s coat, over the lower lumbar region, was sticky with congealing blood. There was a slit in the material, clotted round the edges with blood. Stephen said curtly: ‘He must have bled internally. Hardly any outside. Now we are in a mess!’
‘It doesn’t seem possible! I can’t believe it! Nat, of all people!’
‘Here, have some brandy!’ Stephen said, fetching his glass from the mantelpiece.
Joseph gulped down the neat spirit, and achieved a wan smile. ‘Yes, yes, we must be calm! We must try to think. This is a terrible business, Stephen. One’s brain seems to be numb. Those young people downstairs, making merry in their innocence, while here, in this room, you and I confront –’
‘Can it!’ said Stephen brutally. ‘Merriment is not the predominant note of this sanguinary party, and you know it! And as for innocence – I wonder who the devil did this?’
This reflection seemed to pull Joseph together. He sat up, and gave a gasp. ‘One had not thought of that! I suppose the shock of it – Stephen, this is appalling! Who could have done so terrible a thing?’
Stephen walked over to the windows, and twitched the curtains apart. After a brief inspection, he turned, and said: ‘Do you realise that the door was locked, and every window shut?’
Joseph, who was wandering about the room in a distracted way, blinked at him. ‘The bathroom! That’s how the murderer must have got in!’
Stephen’s eyes went swiftly to the door leading into the bathroom. It stood ajar, and a light showed beyond it. He walked into the room. A bath had been prepared for Nathaniel; his towels were laid over the hot rail; the bathmat had been spread on the floor. The door was locked, and only the ventilator above the casement window was open.
‘That door’s locked too,’ Stephen said, returning to the bedroom. ‘Work that out, if you can!’
‘The door locked?’ Joseph said blankly. ‘Are you sure, Stephen?’
‘Of course I’m sure!’
Ford came back into the room. ‘The doctor will be round immediately, sir. And Miss Paula’s coming up, sir. I couldn’t stop her. Well, I didn’t rightly know what to say, Mr Joseph.’
‘Stephen, this is no sight for a woman!’ Joseph exclaimed. ‘She mustn’t come in!’
Stephen threw him a contemptuous glance, and made no movement to intercept his sister’s entrance.
Paula came in in her usual tempestuous way, saying: ‘What is it? Why don’t you come down? What is all the mystery?’
‘That will be a puzzle for the police,’ replied Stephen.
She saw Nathaniel’s body, and her eyes narrowed. She stood staring down at it for a moment, growing a little pale, and then asked in a tight voice: ‘Is he dead?’
‘Oh yes!’ Stephen answered.
‘What killed him?’
‘You have the wrong word. Not what: who.’
She looked at him, something hard and anxious in her eyes. ‘Was he murdered, then?’
‘Stabbed in the back.’
She shuddered. ‘How horrible! How horrible!’
There was a silence. Joseph broke it. ‘You oughtn’t to be here, Paula,’ he said feebly.
‘Why not?’
‘Dewy girlhood,’ Stephen explained.
‘Oh!’ She hunched a scornful shoulder. ‘What are we to do?’
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