"Matter?"
"High spirits. That's what I don't like. When I came in, Thompson said there'd been some sort of row about, that man Rainger; and that the other one, the nice one, Emery, had been here all afternoon trying to sober him up. Only he wouldn't be sobered, and from what Thompson said he'd been raving and singing about the house; and that's what Uncle Maurice hates. But when I came in, this Mr. Emery was coming downstairs, and Uncle Maurice came out, and slapped him on the shoulder. I say, it's unbelieveablel That is, if you knew Maurice. And he said, `Where are you going?' Emery looked ill; I mean really ill. I wanted to stop him and ask if I couldn't do something, only I didn't know him. But he said he'd got a room in a hotel at Epsom nearby where they were keeping her. "
"Steady! No Price Terrors now. Go on."
"It was only that Uncle Maurice said, `Are you a friend of Mr. Rainger?" Emery said, `Certainly; what about it? And Uncle Maurice said, `Then you've got to stay to dinner. You'll hear something very interesting.' Emery looked at him in a queer sort of way; and there must be something on his mind, because he said, `You'd invite Me to dinner? You don't think what Canifest does?' I say, he was upset! Something about people thinking he was a — a — well, he used the word 'louse.' And Uncle Maurice said, 'If you're a friend of Mr. Rainger, nobody will be more welcome.' It simply doesn't sound like him, that's all."
"It sounds more like him than you think."
She dropped her hands and turned round to look at him fully.
"I know what you mean," she said, "but I don't understand."
He told her. He told her only of the accusation, and added: "Sit down and let me explain it, because — it concerns you. It also concerns Louise. Will you be frank with me now?"
"Yes. That is, except about one thing, and that doesn't concern murders."
That sharp directness of hers had come through; it would have come through, even if she had tried to prevent it. She was looking up at him, her head back as though defiantly, but he could see her shoulders quivering and the rise and fall of her breast.
"No!" she said suddenly and almost hysterically, as he took a step forward. "That's what I meant when I said I wouldn't be frank. Not now! Not now, do you see? I'm a nasty little-little-I don't know! But I'm — I'm even postponing my feelings, until there's nothing else except them to think about or worry about; when every single thing that I think and care can all be set on one. Quick! Tell me what you were going to say about Maurice. That's only fair."
"Maurice," he replied, and took almost a pleasure in snapping out a name he detested, "accused Rainger of Marcia's murder. I told you that already. And I was going to ask if you really believed Louise had gone down to the pavilion. Because, according to Maurice, she did. Sit down. In a way it concerns you."
"Do you really think that Rainger —? What does your man-who-can-see-through-the-brick-wall think of it?"
"That's what I don't understand. The only comment he made to me, and he was serious, was that Rainger could have done it. I mean, that he could be guilty; but I don't think he believes…”
"Well, here's the situation. Rainger made a play for you last night, and Marcia noticed it. She didn't like it. She liked to keep her men dancing on the string, and swooped down immediately if one of them looked away; you admitted that yourself. Do you remember telling us that Marcia spoke to him, and he replied, 'Do you mean it?' And that, Maurice says, was an invitation to the pavilion last night."
Her eyes widened, and then narrowed again. She flushed.
"Then," she said abruptly, "when I saw Rainger coming upstairs at half-past one, and he said, 'You can forget what I asked you tonight; I have better business,' what he actually meant was that he was going out to the pavilion later. Is that it?"
"Yes. And Maurice carries it farther, because he supplies a reason for everything! She wasn't inviting Rainger out there for any business of love-making; quite to the contrary, although Rainger didn't know it. She was inviting him out there so that she and your Uncle John — steady, now; I don't mean anything against him-could corner Rainger and, if necessary, wring his neck…"
"But why?"
"Because Rainger had been the whole motivating force behind Emery's telling Lord Canifest about the marriage. She knew she could handle Emery; but not when Rainger played on Emery's nerves and uneasiness and sent him to Canifest to tell the whole thing! It's Rainger's fine Italian hand that you can see behind the whole business, whether or not you accuse him of murder. Marcia had heard rumors that the beans were spilled. That was why John had gone to see Canifest." He hesitated, but she gestured fiercely for him to go on. "Well, frankly, John may or may not have known about Marcia's marriage to Emery. Emery thinks he didn't; but, whether he did or not, the shock of hearing from Canifest that his great dream about the play had gone to smash was bad enough in itself. And John knew who had prompted Emery to tell. This morning, when he was talking to Willard and me, he flared out about Rainger being behind it
"You see? Both he and Marcia had had rumors of it. And Marcia invited Rainger down to the pavilion last night because she was expecting John back with bad news, and both she and John were going to face Rainger with it."
"But they didn't! They couldn't have, because-"
"No. That's just it." He wondered whether she knew about John's trouble with Canifest, and decided that the best thing was to suppress it. "Because John was delayed in town, and, after she tried to stall Rainger off in the hope that John would return, she was forced to face him alone.
"Blast it, the thing fits together almost too accurately!
Even to Louise's part in it. Louise entered unintentionally into the scheme. The mysterious woman Mrs. Thompson saw going down over the lawn at one-thirty, the person who started the dog barking, was Louise. She had gone down to the pavilion to make a last appeal to Marcia. If Marcia wouldn't listen to reason, she wasn't going to kill her; but that little quiet friend of yours was going to slash Marcia's face open and disfigure her with the lash of a hunting-crop.."
Katharine had gone pale. He felt a sickening sensation, a knowledge that he was right. Biting at her lips, Katharine hesitated, wavered…
"How," she burst out, "did Uncle Maurice know that? Nobody's said anything about that crop! I haven't told anybody. I tried to conceal?'
"Yes, I know you did. It's Maurice's quaint habit of listening at doors. He's overheard everything that's been said in this house. I shouldn't be at all surprised if he could hear us right now."
Everywhere Bennett seemed to see that gently leering, cool, pale face with its big forehead and black-pointed eyes. So strong was the impression that he went over, opened the door, and peered out. A little reassured that the gallery was empty, he turned back.
"And he pointed out one thing we had overlooked: that no woman would use the loaded end of a crop as a weapon to kill. It had another meaning. It's clear as daylight when you think of it as a weapon like vitriol or a horsewhip: to disfigure. Very well, she went down to the pavilion at one-thirty. Rainger, on the other hand, thought the dog barking meant that John was coming home. He went to his room, and waited for some minutes so that John could go to his room and get out of the way. You see?"
"Yes, but!"
"Wait a minute. About twenty minutes to two, Rainger came downstairs (still in his evening clothes). He let himself out the back door and went down to the pavilion in high feather for a nuit d'amour.
"And when he got there, still during a heavy snowfall, he heard the row. It was a furious row. Louise had nerved herself up in some way, and she went for Tait with the crop. Somebody got hit, and there was a little blood; but Tait was the stronger either physically or mentally, and she got Louise out of there before Rainger showed himself to interfere. You see, Tait still didn't know' Louise's father had refused to back their play, and she wanted to keep down as much trouble as possible. Louise, still with the crop in her hand, stumbled out of there, crying, with all her emotional nerve gone; and Tait only laughed. She enjoyed it."
As he refashioned Maurice's words, Bennett understood now why the man could have written a brilliant play. He could not hope to reproduce the vividness with which Maurice's dry, precise inflection probed into brains and reshaped the anguish of a hurt woman. Again he saw Maurice bending forward, hands clasped on his stick, gently smiling.
"What happened to Louise, according to him," said Bennett, "you can guess. Her worked-up nerve was gone. She came back to the house in a hysterical condition at not later than a quarter to two. She did not remove her coat, or anything except her wet shoes. She lay in the dark and brooded until she was nearly insane. Then she determined, in the night, to come to you and tell you. Can you think of a more likely motive for waking up somebody at that time of the morning? On the way to your room, she lost her way in the dark — something that may have been only a shadow shattered her last shred of reason — she cried out, and when she opened her eyes both you and Willard were bending over her. She would have told you, but she couldn't tell Willard. She was again the prim, nervous Miss Carewe. But she saw the blood on her, and she instantly cried out the first thing that a girl of her type would naturally think of, a `mysterious man' beloved of the spinsters, who had accosted her. "
Katharine said quietly:
"It can't be. But that doesn't matter. It doesn't have any connection with Rainger out there at the pavilion. I know now all about the `impossible situation.' Dr. Wynne carefully explained it to me. If Rainger killed her, how did he do it?"
"It's the simplest damned trick ever worked, if it's true. Did Dr. Wynne tell you about the conditions out there? How everything looked?"
"Yes. Carry on. I want to know!"
"All right. Rainger, when it's snowing most heavily, goes out jubilantly to his tryst. She appreciates the baboon now… Well, Tait doesn't want to pitch into him until John returns with definite news; maybe she felt Rainger might still be a valuable friend, or maybe she was a little afraid of Rainger's brains and nastiness. She was very gracious and alluring to him, while John wasn't there to take her part when she did pitch in. But-time went on, things got more strained; two o'clock, half-past two, still no John.
"The blow-up must have come about three, when Rainger was gradually getting suspicious, and Marcia suddenly realized that if the news had been good John would have returned by that time. In other words, the plans had crashed and John was afraid to come and tell her. And it was Rainger's fault. It was the fault of the tubby little man pawing at her… "
"Don't!" said Katharine, and shuddered.
"I'm afraid," said Bennett uneasily, "you're only proving Maurice's point. Then can you imagine what she began to tell him? It's a funny thing, but when Rainger himself was telling us this morning of an imaginary interview between Marcia and John just before he said John killed her, Rainger used the words, `She told him for the first time what she really thought of him.'
"Lord, it comes back at him with a smash, doesn't it? Everything he said about John might have been in his mind about himself. Furious as he was (says Maurice), he kept that little kink of reason in his mind; that cunning he's always got. He realized that, if he killed Marcia by smashing her head in, the blame would probably go straight to Louise who he knew had made an attack on her.
"But in any event, he didn't check himself. He killed her with one of those heavy silvered-steel or brass vases that are all over the house, those vases with sharp edges which would make exactly the kind of wounds that were on her head. Afterwards he washed it off and put it back on one of the Japanese cabinets — so that Louise's loaded crop should be blamed.
"And there, my girl," snapped Bennett, "there's exactly where Maurice's theory is reasonable. There is why he says he knew Louise's story about being grabbed in the dark by a bloody-handed man was pure fabrication. Why should the fool murderer come all the way back from the pavilion without washing his hands? There's water down there. Even if he wasn't acquainted with the pavilion, it's the first thing he'd have looked for."
After a pause the girl rubbed her hand dazedly across her forehead.
"And that little stain of blood," she muttered, "came from Louise's attempt to. But Rainger? He had to get back from the pavilion, didn't he? And the snow had stopped! And aside from how he could have done it, if he knew Louise would be suspected, why did he try to throw the blame on John?"
"Because, don't you see, he had to! He suddenly had to change his plans, for the same reason we've been putting up against everybody who's been accused: The snow had stopped, and he hadn't calculated on it. It must have been a hellish shock, when he was all ready with a perfect situation at hand, to discover that the snow stopping an hour before had wrecked the entire scheme. If his footprints alone were seen leaving that pavilion, there was no chance to accuse anybody. That's why a less clever man than Rainger would never have had the strength of mind to get himself out of it. He did, brilliantly. You see. "
She protested: "Wait a bit! Dr. Wynne told me about that accusation he made against John. But if he wanted to blame Louise, couldn't he still have done it? Somebody asked why a person trapped in the pavilion wouldn't make tracks and simply mess them up so they couldn't be recognized. And Rainger answered that it would take too much time; the dog would bark and rouse the house. But that wouldn't apply to Rainger. He knew Tempest had been tied up inside; he heard Uncle Maurice give the orders. Messed-up tracks would have been blamed on Louise, and he had all the time he wanted, didn't he?"
Bennett fumbled after a cigarette and lit it hastily.
He said: "Good girl! That's exactly what Masters said to your uncle. But by the devilish arrangement of circumstances, Rainger was in an even worse position. He couldn't afford to take the time-risk either. He knew there was nothing to fear from the dog, but..:'
"Yes?"
"He expected John back from town at any time! — Naturally Marcia, when she flew out at him, would have told him she expected John. She had told him John was coming down to the pavilion, whenever he got home. Rainger knew John hadn't got back, or he would have heard the car. So, if he tries the long process of messing up his tracks, and meets John halfway up the lawn… you see?"
"I say, this is-the perverseness of things… But what did he do? What could he do?"
Bennett drew a deep breath. "Here we go. Now this non-arrival of John, according to Maurice, supplied Rainger with his inspiration. He knew that, at some time during that night, or very early in the morning, John would come down to the pavilion. He'd either go down there as soon as he got back from London, or turn up for early horseback-riding according to Tait's orders. Rainger might have to wait a long time, but the probabilities were overwhelming that John would be the first person at Tait's side in the morning. And if not John, somebody else might do as well.
"He heard John's car come in about quarter-past three.
John didn't come down at the moment, but that might only mean he had gone into the house for a short time. Rainger was always in danger if he tried to venture out of the pavilion, not knowing what John was up to. So his inspiration grew until he worked out the whole scheme into a perfect alibi for himself. Did you see Rainger this morning?"
She looked at him queerly. "Yes. About half-past eight. He was standing in the door of his room putting on a ghastly-looking dressing-gown. I think he was patting one of the maids — yes, it was Beryl! — he was patting her on the head and saying, `Good girl, good girl.' I don't know whether he was drunk then."
"Yes! We come back to Maurice's theory again. Beryl was the girl who told him John's bed hadn't been slept in last night. It wasn't slept in because John didn't go to bed at all. He paced the floor all night after he got in, with the light on, wondering whether he had the nerve to go and face Tait with the bad news! Do you see it? And still Rainger as I told you, didn't dare venture out of the pavilion… because he saw the light on in John's room.
"Maurice asked the very significant question: `How did Rainger, at the very beginning of the case, before any of us knew the 'ci
rcumstances, come to inquire whether or not John's bed had been slept in? What made him think of it?' And Maurice answered, `Because Rainger saw the light on all night in that room, and he was working out his scheme to throw the blame on John.' — Now, then, you saw Rainger this morning. He was still in his evening clothes, wasn't he? At least the shirt and trousers?"
"Y-yes, I, think so. I don't remember.
"He was when he spoke to us in the library. Did you notice certain very black grimy stains on his shoulders, and powdered down his shirt?"
"Yes, I did notice that, because I thought he must be even nastier than I'd thought, to let… "
Bennett got up. He put his hand slowly under the hood of the fireplace, touched lightly, and withdrew it stained in soot.
"Like this?" he asked. "Yes. I saw the marks myself. Well, the fires were out down at the pavilion. The chimneys are enormous, and have iron steps for the chimney-sweep on the inside. Rainger took off his coat for greater freedom when he tested whether he could manage it. He found it could be done. So he waited patiently until John should come down there. He had to turn out the light a long time before daylight, in case somebody over at the stables should see an all-night light, and grow curious. But he had to keep striking matches in the dark, match after match, to look at his watch. He left the front door of the pavilion open. It would be time to act when he heard John's footsteps.
"You still don't see it? When John discovered the body, Rainger was in the chimney. He knew that he was fairly safe when the inevitable search of the house occurred. It did occur. John and I undertook it. While we were in the back part of the house…"
"But he still had to leave the pavilion!"
And now Bennett remembered the terrible subdued triumph of Maurice's face when Maurice suddenly pointed his stick at H. M. and put the last touch on his accusation.
"Have you forgotten," said Bennett, hearing the words echo back, "that Rainger's foot is as small as a woman's? We noticed it this morning in the library. Have you also forgotten that your uncle John wears the largest size in men's shoes? — Don't you think that you, for instance, could walk back to the house in his tracks, without every touching the outside edges, while two dunderheads were searching the other side of the pavilion? Have you forgotten that, once you were across the lake, the curve of the evergreen avenue would screen you from view? With a number six shoe in a number ten, you could walk straight in your normal way; let yourself back into the house through the door John had left open to come out; and, since there might be some question about a blur in those tracks, you could explain it later exactly in the way Rainger did; to throw the blame on John Bohun."
White Priory Murders shm-2 Page 17
