I Want to Go Home

by Frances Lockridge

  John Lockwood had changed, but the change was not in anything essential. He seemed merely to have grown more assuredly, more confidently, what he had been before. He was grayer of hair, the decisive lines in his decisive face were more pronounced than she remembered. He was standing by the living-room fireplace—tall, contained, ready to decide, to take responsibility. There was something metallic about Cousin John. There had always been.

  Elliott had not changed at all—not grown gray, not grown heavier. He was not more lined or more mature. It was hard to remember that he was only a little younger—two years younger, she thought—than his brother. He looked ten years younger, fifteen. She did not think he had changed since she was old enough to remember him. Now he looked rather pale, rather “washed out.” But now he had a cold and apparently an annoying one. He kept passing one hand over his forehead and then looking at the hand, as if he thought he were perspiring. He pressed both hands to his temples, as if his head ached. And he was very hoarse. Grace Lockwood kept looking at him with quick, worried glances, her face set in anxious lines. It took Jane a few moments to realize that the anxious lines were permanent; that now, for some reason, this was the way Elliott’s wife always looked.

  Grace realized that Jane was looking at her, and Grace looked back, without smiling, without acceptance in her eyes. Jane looked away.

  There was no friendship here, no acceptance from anyone. She was waiting with strangers, for something to happen. “The captain would like you to wait in here, if it is convenient.” That had been the taller of the detectives who were not in uniform. He had said that to Jane and John Lockwood in the room upstairs, and as they came out and down the stairs men had waited at the foot of the stairs with a long basket and Jane had put a hand up to her throat, and felt dryness in her throat. After Lockwood and Jane were out of the way, the men had gone up the stairs with the basket.

  Alice Meredith and her husband had been in the living room already; their son had come a moment later and then the tall detective had come with Elliott and Grace Lockwood, and had said, in a heavy voice, “that’s what the captain would like, Mrs. Lockwood,” as if what the captain liked and what God would like were the same, and of equal authority. The tall detective had closed the door behind the Elliott Lockwoods and left the family together.

  “Hello, Jane,” Elliott had said, in a croaking voice. “Finally got here?” Grace Lockwood had nodded, not smiling even then. The Merediths, father and son, had stood up and Frederick Meredith had nodded and said, “Jane” in a tone without meaning. Arthur had merely looked at her. Then the family, except for John Lockwood, who had taken his stand at the fireplace, had found chairs. It seemed to Jane that, somehow, the chairs of the others formed a semi-circle around her, but when she really looked she realized that this was only a feeling. She was not really caged in, focussed on. But she felt as if she were.

  It must have been fifteen minutes before anyone spoke. Then it was Elliott, who spoke suddenly, and for a moment in his natural voice. He came back to Jane more clearly, then, in the musical, fresh notes of his familiar voice. He spoke, and seemed to choke, and when he went on his voice was a creaking parody of itself.

  “What’re they doing?” he said, and that was clear. “This State cop—this—what’s his name?” The last sentence was in a splintered voice.

  “Heimrich,” John Lockwood said. His tone rebuked his brother with faint contempt for not remembering. “Captain Heimrich. Probably trying to digest Jane’s story.” His tone held no comment.

  “Poor Jane,” Alice Meredith said. “Dear Jane. So difficult for you, dear. Why did you come?”

  “I wanted to come home,” Jane said. She thought she was speaking mechanically, but could not change the rhythm of her speech.

  “A bad time,” John Lockwood said. “Earlier would have been better. Or later.”

  “I couldn’t know,” Jane said. She seemed to be defending herself.

  They all did look at her, then. She could not meet so many eyes, peering at her through this transparent film which separated her from them. The eyes were impersonal, assaying. But perhaps she imagined that. She felt as if she were about to become dizzy, but the dizziness remained only a hint, a kind of warning.

  “Besides that?” Elliott said. His voice croaked. “What are we going to do?”

  “Wait,” his brother said. “Wait until sent for.”

  “He can do that?” Frederick Meredith said. John Lockwood looked down at him and nodded slowly.

  “Poor Mr. Heimrich,” Alice Meredith said. “So difficult for him.”

  “Alice! Good God!” That was, unexpectedly, Arthur Meredith. Jane looked at him, and saw anger in his amorphous face. “Poor Mr. Heimrich. So difficult for him.” The last was perfect, startling, mimicry of his mother’s voice—of its pitch, its rhythm.

  “Arthur,” his mother said. “Dear Arthur. You shouldn’t. Such a bad habit, dear. So—disconcerting.” She turned to Jane. “His larynx,” she said. “Double-jointed. I think it must be.”

  “It’s your field, John,” Frederick Meredith said, as if none of this had happened. “You must know. How do they go about—about finding out?”

  John Lockwood seemed about to deny it was his field. Then he shrugged.

  “Motive,” he said. “Opportunity. Talk to people. Who profits? Who could get at the poison? Who could put it in the medicine? Who was—here?” There was a break in the last sentence. With the word “here” Lockwood looked at Jane. It was as if he expected her to say something.

  “I was on the train,” she said. “The train from St. Louis.”

  “Dear Jane,” Alice Meredith said. “So odd.” Grace Lockwood spoke at almost the same time. She said, “You told the police that?” Jane nodded. Then they all looked at her again, except Arthur Meredith, who looked at the floor, his face merely features. They looked at her, and then she felt their eyes leave her and found they were looking at John Lockwood, for him to speak.

  And John Lockwood shook his head. It took a moment for the gesture to make sense to Jane. Then, hardly knowing why, she was on her feet.

  “Yes!” she said. “Yes! I tell you—” her voice was high.

  Lockwood shook his head again and she stopped.

  “It’s no good, Jane,” he said. He seemed merely to be stating a fact. “I’m afraid you were seen. Here.”

  “No!” she said. “I—somebody’s lying.” She looked around at them. “What are you doing?” she said. “What’re you trying to do?”

  Nobody answered; the eyes did not answer.

  “I saw you,” John Lockwood said.

  “No!” she said again. “I was on the train.”

  She looked around again, and the eyes beat at her.

  “About two this morning,” Lockwood said. “You went out of the house and walked down the drive. You almost ran. I suppose you had a car down the drive. I watched you from a window.”

  “You told the police that?” Her voice was not high, now. It was deadened.

  “Certainly,” John Lockwood said.

  She looked at him, trying to catch out the lie in his eyes. He looked back at her, and his gaze was steady.

  “What are you trying to do to me?” she said. “All of you? What are you trying to do?”

  “Dear Jane,” Alice Meredith said. “So—so hard to believe.”

  “Sometime last night or early this morning,” Lockwood said, “somebody got a bottle of nicotine out of the garden shed and poured some of it into Susan’s medicine. Reached in, got the medicine, took it off somewhere and poured the poison in, brought the medicine bottle back. The day nurse gave it to her without knowing.”

  “The day nurse,” Jane said. “There was a night nurse, then. She would have seen.”

  Lockwood shook his head. “Asleep,” he said. “She’d been in New York all day, instead of sleeping. Somebody took a chance. If the nurse woke up—well, you could always try again. If she woke up, you could always say you’d just come to see how Su
san was.”

  “I was on the train,” Jane said. “You’ve—you’re all planning this.”

  “You took a chance,” Lockwood said. “You lost. Admit it, Jane. It might have worked if I hadn’t seen you.”

  He did not seem to be arguing. He almost seemed sorry. She looked around at the others and their eyes circled her. Even Arthur was looking at her now. The dizziness was more pronounced.

  Heimrich partially opened his eyes and looked up at Sergeant Forniss.

  “They’re stewing,” Forniss said.

  “Naturally,” Heimrich said. “As it should be. The girl?”

  “She’s there,” Forniss said.

  “Good,” Heimrich said. “Lockwood will tell her, probably. She’ll want to see me, I should think. We’ll let her wait.”

  Forniss said that Heimrich was the doctor.

  “Speaking of the doctor,” Heimrich said, “who fed the old girl the shrimps? To make her think she was being poisoned? So she’d seem to be going crazy?”

  “You’re sure?” Forniss said.

  Heimrich closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

  “Nothing’s sure,” he said. “I think so. There were left-over shrimps. The cook says they diminished. The old girl was allergic to shrimps. She got sick. She thought she was being poisoned. The doctor says she wasn’t.”

  “Shrimps wouldn’t kill her,” Forniss said.

  “No?” Heimrich said. “I don’t know. They might have, in her condition. Perhaps they were supposed to.”

  “They didn’t,” Forniss said.

  Heimrich opened his eyes, looked at Forniss, closed them again.

  “No,” he said. “Disparity of means. Something which might conceivably work, probably wouldn’t. Then—nicotine. You’d think, disparity of purpose. But she got killed.”

  “Different people?” Forniss said.

  Heimrich opened his eyes again and regarded Forniss.

  “You know,” he said, “I thought of that, sergeant. Two plots. Overlapping. Or—somebody arriving late.”

  “The girl,” Forniss said.

  “Now sergeant,” Heimrich said. “Now sergeant.”

  “You don’t believe Lockwood?”

  Heimrich closed his eyes entirely and seemed to go to sleep. Forniss merely waited. Heimrich opened his eyes and seemed faintly surprised to see Forniss.

  “You know, sergeant,” he said, “nicotine’s very funny stuff. Very funny. A nuisance to fool around with.”

  “All right,” Forniss said. “You believe the gardener?”

  “Yes, I think so, sergeant.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, you know,” Forniss said. “A big bottle, bought in the spring and never used. Never opened. A pint, approximately. And now half of it gone. Half a pint’s a hell of a lot too much.”

  “You pour out of a big bottle into a little bottle and you spill,” Heimrich said. “Naturally. If you’re hurried and excited, especially. Murder’s an exciting business. I’d think, sergeant. Wouldn’t you? So you’d be sloppy.”

  “Very sloppy,” Forniss said. “Damned sloppy.”

  “Naturally,” Heimrich said. “That’s why it spilled down the bottle, sergeant. Got all over the label. Hurried and excited and—careless, our murderer was.”

  “He remembered to put it back in the shed,” Forniss said. “If we believe the gardener.”

  “I know,” Heimrich said. “I—” He broke off, closed his eyes, leaned his head back. Then he opened his eyes.

  “I wonder if Lockwood still tells the same story,” Heimrich said. “Let’s ask him, sergeant.”

  Lockwood, brought, did tell the same story. He had seen Jane Phillips leave the house at about two o’clock that morning and walk down the drive toward the road. There had been moonlight; he was convinced it was Jane.

  “Certain?” Heimrich said. “You’d swear to it?”

  Lockwood shrugged at that.

  “Am I certain?” Lockwood repeated. “Yes—morally. I’m sure it was Jane. But—I don’t say I could make it stick under cross-examination, captain. Bad light—distance—a good while since I saw the girl—you know how it would be.”

  “Naturally,” Heimrich said. “You know your business, counsellor. But, for us, not for the court—you’re sure you saw Jane Phillips come out of the front door of this house and go down the drive, walking fast, almost running?”

  “Yes,” Lockwood said.

  Heimrich nodded and Lockwood went. Heimrich shook his head.

  “And the girl says she was on a train from St. Louis,” Heimrich said. “People are such liars, sergeant. Sort of a pity, really.”

  “The girl,” Forniss said. He was matter of fact. “She got off the train in Kansas City. She took a plane. Got here—got to New York—last night. Rented a car and drove out. Put nicotine in the medicine, drove back to New York, waited until this evening and drove out again. All innocent, with a tall story.” He paused, considering. “God, what a story!” he said. He was contemptuous.

  Heimrich opened his eyes and looked at Forniss and closed them. It apparently was an invitation to continue.

  “Very smart, she thought,” Forniss said. “Because apparently she doesn’t stand to profit, and she’s the only one who doesn’t. Check?”

  “Only,” Heimrich said, “if she knew about how much money the old lady had. Otherwise, she might have figured there’d be some left.”

  “She knew,” Forniss said. “Why not? About two million. The old girl knew near to the penny. You think she didn’t tell the girl? You think she didn’t say, ‘see what you get for marrying the wrong guy’?”

  “You make a case,” Heimrich said, without opening his eyes. “You make a case, Forniss.”

  “Why?” John Lockwood said. “You want to know why? For the money, Jane. How else would you get it?”

  They all looked at her and waited. She was seated, now. It was as if their eyes forced her back in her chair, held her there. She could feel the cold pressure of their eyes, and of their thoughts.

  “No,” she said. “No.” Her voice was dead; it sounded dead in her own ears.

  “Susan thought she had fixed it,” Lockwood said. He was the—spokesman, the prosecutor. “When she changed her will. She thought you were out of it.”

  “I don’t know,” the girl said. “I don’t know about the will.”

  “You say you don’t,” Lockwood said. His voice was harsh, it invited attention to the absurdity of Jane Phillips’ statement. The others looked at her, except the boy, Arthur, who looked at the floor. “All right, I’ll tell you. You know how it was. I got some, Elliott got some, little Susan and Silas, Frederick. Specific bequests, leaving you the rest. You know how it was.”

  Jane did not answer. She looked at her hands in her lap. She saw they twisted together, and it was as if they were not her hands.

  “She changed it after you went into the Navy. She was angry. You know that.”

  Again Jane said nothing.

  “Not in form,” Lockwood said. “In substance. You understand? Still specific bequests to all of us, still the residue to you. Only, now the specific bequests eat up the residue. She planned it very neatly. She knew what she had. She—spread it out. Elliott and I get six hundred thousand dollars each; Frederick gets half as much because he already had his father’s money—old Silas’ money. Little Susan and little Silas—they split another three hundred thousand. Take out some for servants—that sort of thing. Figure she had a couple of million to leave. Figure it out, Jane.”

  “I didn’t care,” Jane said. “I don’t care. I—I just wanted to see her.”

  “To get around her,” Lockwood said. “Perhaps that was your first plan—to get in before you were expected, talk her around. What happened? It was risky—too risky? She was too far gone? You were afraid she wouldn’t live to change her will again? I don’t know. Perhaps you hadn’t figured on the nurse being there. Perhaps Susan looked at you and you saw it wouldn’t be any good.”

&nbs
p; “I didn’t,” Jane said. “Oh—I didn’t!” She looked at them. “You,” she said. “One of you—all of you. I don’t know. I—I was on the train.”

  “It’s no good,” Lockwood said. “Can’t you see it’s no good, Jane?” He waited.

  Jane’s mind groped through what he had said; pushed through the words to find the lie, the central lie. She thought she had it, her mind reached for it.

  “Maybe you believe it,” she said, and her words were slow. “Say you believe it. Then you can see it’s wrong, John. Because—because you say—you say it yourself—I don’t get anything. There wouldn’t be any way because—” Then she stopped. And then John Lockwood smiled.

  “Give it up, Jane,” he said. “Give it up. We’ll try to do what we can. But give it up. Even a layman can work it out. You want me to tell you?”

  She shook her head. There was no need.

  “Precisely,” Lockwood said. “You can’t profit by a murder. It’s against public policy. So—if I had murdered Susan, I wouldn’t inherit, if I was found out. My share would go back into the estate, become residual. And—you’d get it, Jane. That’s the only way you could get anything, you see. Kill your great-aunt, make it appear I had—or Elliott, or Frederick—get the share of the one they hit on. Do it when, on the face of it, you couldn’t have been here—when it had to be one of us. Probably Elliott—or me. Because we get more, so you’d get more. Which one of us are you going to try to push it on, Jane?” He laughed, harshly. “Clever Jane.”

  “Dear Jane,” Alice Meredith said. “Poor, dear Jane.”

  They all looked at her. Even Arthur looked up from the floor, looked at her. They all seemed to wait. In the silence, the slamming of a car door somewhere outside was unexpectedly loud.

  Ten

  The trooper at the door watched through the slit window beside it, saw the tall, hatless young man coming, and opened the door and said, “Well?” The young man stopped and his expression, which had held a kind of eagerness, faded, froze.

  “What’s happened?” he said. “Jane? Mrs. Phillips?” He moved forward and the movement seemed almost angry.