‘Would you know Romilly again, if you saw him?’
‘I might, of course, but a lot of water has flowed under the bridge since my undergraduate days.’
‘You knew that Felix Napoleon was dead?’
‘I’d never thought about it. I don’t read the obituary columns and I don’t suppose his wife would have thought of inviting me to the funeral.’
‘She may have pre-deceased him.’
‘Yes, of course. Well, mother, I must say that your account of Romilly really does surprise me. He must have altered a very great deal since I knew him.’
‘I am suffering from dear Laura’s complaint, no doubt,’ admitted Dame Beatrice.
‘What’s that?’
‘A pricking of the thumbs. Besides, now that you have described your Romilly to me, I do not see how he could be (however much his nature may have changed) my Romilly.’
‘Physical description doesn’t fit?’
‘You said that Romilly was small.’
‘And dark. Of course, he’s probably grey-haired by now.”
‘How small was he?’
‘Oh, almost a head shorter than I am, and I am six feet one and a half. I should say he stood about five feet four – call it five five with his shoes on.’
‘And was very short-sighted?’
‘So much so that, when he mislaid his glasses one day – took them off to have a bath – I had to find them for him because he usually put them in their case on the bathroom stool, but this time had left them in his room and had been groping about for them in there for ages before he heard me on the stairs and yelled for my assistance.’
‘Short sight is not usually a disability which cures itself as the years roll by. The younger brother, you tell me, had a club foot.’
‘Yes. I wonder whether it had warped him a bit. His writings for his unofficial rag were extremely spiteful.’
‘So, if my host at Galliard Hall is not the real Romilly, neither is he likely to be Romilly’s brother Caesar. I did well to go to Selina and be referred to you. These are deeper waters than I had suspected. However, nothing is lost by making sure. Could you make it convenient to call at Galliard Hall at some time during the next few days so that you can meet this pseudo-Romilly?’
‘On what pretext?’
‘That you have heard from me that he has some very fine pictures, and you are wondering whether he would be willing to part with the Raeburn, as you particularly want to give it as an anniversary present to your wife, whose negotiations for a Raeburn have recently broken down. You are safe enough in making this offer. The pictures are not his to sell, as he is not the owner of Galliard Hall.’
‘I wouldn’t recognise a Raeburn if you handed one to me on a plate.’
‘With watercress round it, as Laura’s favourite author would remark. The Raeburn is the first portrait you come to as you enter the hall.’
‘Very well. I can manage tomorrow afternoon, if that’s all right.’
‘Do not mention, of course, that you knew Romilly at Cambridge, unless you believe that this man really is Romilly Lestrange.’
‘Now what do you take me for, mother!’
‘I apologise.’
‘Good. Let’s rejoin the family, or they’ll be complaining that I keep you all to myself. You look as though you’re enjoying all this Romilly business, though. Are you?’
‘The plot thickens in the most agreeable way. I am no longer able to keep Laura’s fingers out of the pie.’
‘Of course, the obvious point to consider is this: if Romilly isn’t Romilly, who the devil is he?’
‘If you can tell me who Felix Napoleon’s lawyers were, I hope to be able to find that out.’
‘Well, I’ll enquire around. I know he’d chucked the Marshall-Provost gang – their solicitors, I mean.’
(3)
The older members of Snapp, Snapp and Bacon had preceded their client to the grave, but, although there were no Snapps left, a scion of the Bacons was senior partner in the firm, and had brought a son and a nephew into the business. It was the older Bacon who received Dame Beatrice.
‘Upon receipt of your letter,’ he said, ‘I looked up the relevant facts. In 1960, on the death of his natural son Caesar, Mr Felix Napoleon Lestrange altered his Will. Up to that time the provisions were not quite as they are at present. For one thing, they made Caesar a beneficiary to the same extent as his brother. Both, as you know, were born out of wedlock, so, until 1944, when the legitimate son Harvard was killed in the war, Harvard had been in the position of sole heir in respect of his father’s property, with the exception of legacies of five thousand pounds each to his half-brothers, Romilly and Caesar.
‘Upon Harvard’s death, however, the Will was somewhat materially changed. For one thing, at her father’s death, which occurred in January, 1944, Rosamund, who, from the twenty-ninth of May next, will have a life-interest in her grandfather’s wealth, irrespective of her possible marriage, was still en ventre sa mère. The new Will, therefore, gave her a life-interest after she had attained the age of twenty-five. Up to that time we, as Felix Napoleon’s solicitors, were empowered to maintain her and her mother in the event of Felix Napoleon’s dying before she reached her twenty-fifth year, but, as it happened, the mother died in giving birth, and Felix Napoleon assumed full responsibility for the baby and had her to live with him until his death, a couple of years ago.’
‘Did you approve of her going to live with Romilly Lestrange after her grandfather’s death?’
‘We made careful enquiries, but there seemed nothing we could object to in the scheme and, in any case, as the young lady was of age, we could have acted in an advisory capacity only, which is exactly what we did. We advised against it, but she was obdurate.’
‘What was the reason for your advice?’
‘The fact, which we felt bound to point out to her, that Romilly Lestrange, under the terms of Felix Napoleon’s last Will, had an interest in her death, once she had attained the age of twenty-five years. The money, as you probably know, Dame Beatrice, was left in trust for Miss Rosamund Lestrange. She could not touch the capital. After her death, however, or if she were proved incapable of managing her affairs, Romilly became the heir. We had to choose our words, of course, very carefully, but I think we made it clear to her that these provisions might make it highly unsatisfactory for her to become a member of Mr Romilly’s household.’
‘There was never any suggestion that Romilly had married her, of course?’
‘My dear lady, how could there be? She is his half-brother’s daughter.’
‘Of course,’ said Dame Beatrice meekly. ‘Was your advice given to her by word of mouth?’
‘No. She refused to come and see us, or to let us go and see her. The first letter we received about the new arrangement came from Romilly, and merely informed us that as he was now domiciled permanently in England, he proposed to ask Rosamund to share his home. Upon this we wrote to ask the young lady for an interview, but this she refused to grant us. There was nothing, therefore, for us to do but to send her our extremely carefully-worded warning that her uncle’s plans to give her a home might not be completely altruistic, pay her her quarterly allowance, and leave it at that. I do not see how we could have taken any more definite a course. As I pointed out, she was of age and, in a sense, we were not her lawyers. By that, of course, I mean that we had no powers, except to make sure that the terms of the bequest were carried out.’
‘You mentioned that Romilly wrote to say that he was now permanently domiciled in England. I understood that, soon after he left the University, Romilly emigrated to Kenya.’
‘Oh, yes, he did. Mr Felix Napoleon put up the money for him to buy a half-share in a coffee plantation there.’
‘Did you ever meet Romilly?’
‘Before he emigrated to Kenya with his natural father’s assistance, I had nothing to do with him at all, nor with his brother Caesar. I do know, however, that Caesar left two sons. One of t
hem went into the Church, I believe, and Felix Napoleon employed the other as his secretary, but, again, I never had any occasion to meet either of them.’
‘Were these sons close friends? How did they get on together?’
‘I have no idea. I have read, of course, in the newspapers, of the tragic death of one of them, and I believe the other is missing.’
‘Yes. In my capacity of psychiatric adviser to the Home Office, I am semi-officially engaged in helping with the police investigation into these matters, and I am most grateful to you for giving up your time to me and providing me with so much useful information.’
‘Yes,’ said the solicitor dubiously. ‘Of course, when you came, I had no idea that it was on police business. I trust that you will not need to involve us. We have always had the reputation …’
‘I understand that, and I see no need whatever to involve you. I needed to be certain of my facts, that is all. I wonder whether you will be kind enough to tell me one more thing. Have you any idea of Felix Napoleon’s last address?’
‘I have the last letter he wrote us. It was from a hotel in Carlisle, if my memory serves me.’ He touched the buzzer. ‘Mr Felix Napoleon Lestrange s file, Pearson, if you please … Yes, here we are. He wrote a vile hand, but you can probably make out the address at the top of the letter.’
CHAPTER TEN
St Vitus’ Dance—Three Wise Monkeys
‘One three of them, by their own report, sir, have danced before the king; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half …’
The Winter’s Tale.
* * *
‘Well!’ exclaimed Romilly, extending both hands. ‘So you have returned to the fold, my dear Beatrice!’
‘Are you still in the hands of the police?’ asked his visitor, ignoring those he was stretching out to her and speaking with a calculated lack of tact.
‘Oh, they are occupying themselves with the concerns of Corin and Corinna, who are closeted with them now for the third time. Giles also has been questioned. Come into the library, where we can chat. The detective-inspector and his sergeant are in the drawing-room and Judith is about her duties in the stillroom, so we are not likely to be disturbed. Have you come to report upon Trilby?’
‘She seems well and has settled down with us. I must return the clothes which Binnie so kindly lent her. Can you give me Humphrey’s address?’
‘Certainly. I will write it down for you.’ He did this as soon as they reached the library. ‘I take it that you are following my plan to keep Trilby within doors. It is really not safe for her to be allowed out, if there is water in the vicinity.’
‘In the vicinity of the Stone House there is nothing but the shallow and narrow upper waters of the Lymington River, and a few of the New Forest ponds. There is no fresh light to be shed on Hubert’s death, I suppose?’
‘The police at present are baffled, I think.’
‘They are often thought to be so, when the truth is that they have discovered valuable clues which it would not be in the public interest (as they put it) to reveal.’
‘Do you really think they are on to something?’
‘Who can say? If they are, they certainly have not confided in me. There is no news of Willoughby, I suppose?’
‘I have heard none. One hesitates to wonder whether …’
‘Does one? I have wondered it. He and Hubert are brothers, are they not?’
‘You are thinking of Cain and Abel, but is that fair? There may be some utterly innocent reason for Willoughby’s disappearance, or, of course (although one hardly cares to frame the words), the murderer may have made away with both the brothers.’
‘I have envisaged that possibility also. In fact, I am inclined to put it more positively. I think there is a strong probability that such is the case.’
‘But what would be the reason for so dastardly a deed? Neither was a wealthy man and both seemed the last types to make enemies. I should be interested to hear what you, as a psychiatrist, make of it.’
‘I cannot make bricks without straw. I have never so much as met either of the young men.’
‘Have you not? You would have found them charming fellows, I am sure, and I would have said that there was the closest friendship between them, a happy state of things which one does not always find where brothers are concerned.’
‘How right you are. There was no question, I suppose, of there being a woman in the case? Sometimes, between even the best of friends, or between relatives with the closest family ties …’
‘Oh, as to that, I have no information. Hubert, of course, being a priest of the English Church, would not have been bound to celibacy. I wonder …’
The library door opened and Amabel came in.
‘The police gentlemen be feneshed, sir,’ she announced. ‘They said as how they would be glad to speak to ee afore they go. Should Oi show ’em en here, sir?’
‘Yes, of course show them in here. Do you care to stay, Beatrice, and hear what they have to say?’
‘No. I expect they would prefer to see you alone. I will have a little chat with Corin and Corinna, of whom I was able to see almost nothing when I was here before, and then I will take myself off. I had better say goodbye now, in case your session with the police officers is a long one.’ She thought it better not to meet Kirkby in front of Romilly, in case the latter should deduce that they were old acquaintances. She met the detective-inspector in the hall, bowed and then walked straight past him. Kirkby accepted her lead, returned her bow with a slight inclination of the head, and went on to the library where Amabel was waiting to show him in. Dame Beatrice herself went to the drawing-room.
Corin and Corinna were seated on either side of the fireplace and appeared to be dejected. Giles, looking tired, was with them. All three of the young people looked towards the door when Dame Beatrice entered. Giles and Corin stood up politely, but Corinna, with an exclamation, went towards her.
‘The very person!’ she said. ‘A very present help in time of trouble, as the psalmist said.’
‘He wasn’t talking about Aunt Adela,’ said Corin dispiritedly.
‘We may as well unload the trouble, anyway,’ said his sister. ‘Have a seat, Aunt Adela, and hear us our prayers.’
‘It might be more to the point were I to hear your confessions,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘I take it that you have news of Willoughby.’
‘What on earth makes you think that?’ demanded Corinna, suddenly looking agitated. ‘What can have put such an idea into your head?’ She ruffled the short hair on her own head until it stood almost on end. Her brother put his face between his hands and groaned.
‘Now you have torn it!’ he said. ‘I knew you would!’
‘No, I haven’t. Somebody had to know, and Aunt Adela is much the best person, because she’ll tell us what to do.’
‘If you have found out anything about Willoughby, the people who need to know are the police,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘As they are in the house at this very moment, there is nothing to prevent you from waylaying them as they leave and cleansing your bosoms of this perilous stuff.’
‘Well, there you are,’ said Corinna. ‘That’s what I’ve been saying all along.’
‘But they may suspect us of killing him,’ exclaimed her twin. ‘I would agree if Hubert’s body hadn’t already been found.’
‘Well, we didn’t kill Hubert, or Willoughby, so what?”
Dame Beatrice interposed.
‘Am I to be let into the secret, or am I not?’ she demanded. ‘Having said so much, would it not be better to tell me all?’
The twins looked at one another, and Corin shook his head. His unkempt hair fell across his brown face. He looked like Mowgli, Dame Beatrice thought, with his expression of wariness, animal shyness and a kind of innocent cunning. He was, according to the fashion of the day, a handsome, attractive boy.
‘I’m not saying anything more,’ he said truculently. ‘Corinna, blast her, has given you a nod and a wi
nk, so now it’s up to you.’
‘But she isn’t a blind horse!’ said Giles quietly. ‘Don’t you see we can’t leave it like this? It would have been better to say nothing at all.’
‘Which is what I wanted. You know it is! We’ve argued about it enough! Corinna will rush in and say things in a panic. Shut up, Corinna! Believe me, I know what’s best.’
‘Very well. I’m sorry, Aunt Adela, very sorry, but if Corin won’t listen to reason, well, he won’t.’
‘He can’t afford to,’ muttered Corin. ‘In a case of murder, it isn’t a good thing to know too much.’
‘Well, that would appear to be that,’ said Dame Beatrice equably. ‘You surely do not mean that Willoughby has been murdered, too, and that you have seen the body? Do you want someone else – myself, for preference – to report it?’
‘Oh, no! Goodness me, no!’ cried Corinna. ‘It’s not that at all! No, really, Aunt Adela, it’s nothing as bad as that!’
‘Look here,’ said Giles, ‘having said so much, don’t you think it might be better to say the rest?’
‘No, I don’t! I’ve changed my mind. Oh, dear!’ cried Corinna, pushing her hand through her short, fair hair. ‘After all, it’s not as though we’ve seen or, really, heard anything – anything which points to anybody’s wickedness, I mean – so it would be awful of us to say anything. Anyway, we’ve got no proof.’
‘No proof of who must have murdered Hubert, no,’ said her cousin, ‘but we can trust Great-aunt to do the best thing. I suggest we tell her, and then leave it to her.’
‘We can’t tell her something that I was told in confidence. I’m sorry I ever suggested we should.’
‘You know,’ said Giles, ‘on thinking it over, I’m inclined to agree with Corinna. What she was told – in confidence, as she says – doesn’t really amount to a hill of beans. It proves nothing except that people can be mistaken, or that they think they know something when, all the time, they don’t. I don’t think we ought to point the finger. The truth will come out at some time or another. It isn’t for us to dirty our hands.’
Dance to Your Daddy (Mrs Bradley) Page 13
