The appointment made, Charles drove to Messrs Jamieson & Truelove. About those pictures which he had deposited some days previously. No doubt Mr Truelove had heard that he, Charles, had come into some money since they had done their business? No? Well, it was so, and the result was that he wished now to redeem the pictures. Could they be packed for conveyance in his car and he would call for them on the following morning?
The remainder of Charles’s visit worked out according to plan. He drove from Messrs Jamieson & Truelove’s to his hotel, attended his dinner, where he made the speech of the evening, and next morning carried through his two pieces of business. After a satisfactory interview with his bank manager, to whom Mr Spiller was introduced as a manufacturer of electromotors with whom Charles wished to do business, Charles received notes for five thousand pounds, a four months’ loan at four per cent per month interest. Then he went on to the pawnbrokers, paid up his money and received his pictures. Finally he made another quick run north, arriving at a reasonable time at Cold Pickerby.
About this time Mrs Pollifex and Margot left The Moat. A small house at Hove which they had admired during a previous visit was still vacant, and they secured a lease on favourable terms. As soon as they were gone Peter and Elsie moved into The Moat. By a stroke of extraordinary luck Peter had received an offer for Otterton Farm, provided immediate possession could be given. Though the actual amount was small, he had jumped at it, and the sale had been put through.
Somewhat to Charles’s surprise, Elsie got rid of the two women servants she had had at the farm and took over Andrew’s staff. This consisted of Weatherup, who would now act as butler, and two women servants, a housemaid and a cook.
For Charles life looked like settling down and becoming once more normal. It was true that at intervals he was seized with dreadful fits of remorse, during which he would have given everything he possessed to undo the past. But these he was sure he could overcome, and that he would soon succeed in banishing all thoughts of his late uncle and of the dark period surrounding his death. Una was undoubtedly growing more friendly, and if she did not seem to be getting nearer the idea of matrimony, at least nothing occurred to upset Charles’s happy anticipations.
At the works the new machines had arrived and Macpherson and Charles were having the time of their lives in getting them erected on their new foundations. They had missed the Darlington job, but had got two or three more small ones, and so far no dismissals had taken place.
Charles fell back into his old routine of lunching at the club and settling the affairs of town, state, and world with his acquaintances. Everything, in fact, became as it had been before the crisis, except that now Charles had an easy mind about money. He was losing on the business, but not a great deal, and he could stand the loss almost indefinitely.
And then, just as things seemed to be settling down, he received some information which rudely shattered his dream of security and brought him for a time up against actual stark panic.
It was mid-October. All day the atmosphere had been heavy and the sky lowering and everyone was expecting a storm. It came while Charles was walking back to the works after lunch. The street, which had been fairly crowded, cleared as if by magic, and Charles, following the general example, turned into a shop. It was Mullins’, the booksellers, and there he found Peter.
‘Hallo, Peter,’ Charles greeted him. ‘Doing a bunk from the rain?’
Peter’s face was drawn into that same expression of worry which it had worn during the period following Andrew Crowther’s death. Charles was the more surprised, because latterly this had given way to Peter’s usual look of slightly resigned melancholy. Evidently something pretty serious was weighing on his cousin’s mind.
‘As a matter of fact, I came in for some books,’ said Peter, taking Charles’s remark seriously.
‘Didn’t think you were a reading man,’ Charles rallied him.
‘A man must read something,’ Peter returned, adding inconsequently, ‘They’re books about market gardening.’
‘Oh!’ Charles shook his head. ‘You’re looking worried, Peter. The garden not going well?’
Peter glowered at him. ‘Of course it’s going well. I wish to heaven you’d control your imagination, Charles. Things are bad enough without your constant sneering.’
Charles was surprised. He went closer and spoke more confidentially. ‘Look here, Peter, there’s something up. What is it?’
Peter looked round. They were alone in a corner of the shop. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked in a low tone. ‘No? Well, we can’t talk here. I’ll go to your office when this infernal rain’s over.’
Charles, mystified, nodded, and Peter moved to the back of the shop to complete his purchase.
The storm had been sharp, but it was short. By the time Peter had finished, the worst was over, and in a couple of minutes the cousins walked on. Till they reached the works Charles asked no further questions, but as soon as Peter was smoking in the leather-covered arm-chair, he said: ‘Now, go ahead!’
‘Do you mean to say you’ve heard no whisper of anything, Charles?’ Peter began.
Charles made a gesture of impatience. ‘Nothing to put a face on me like that,’ he retorted. ‘What’s it all about, for heaven’s sake?’
Peter glanced round at the door, then leant forward and sunk his voice. ‘The inquiry about Mr Crowther is reopened!’
Charles’s heart missed a beat. For a moment he felt almost sick. This was utterly unexpected, and as terrifying as it was unexpected. It surely couldn’t mean that the authorities suspected – anything? And yet it must! Besides, there was Peter’s manner. Why should Peter speak to him in that way about it? Peter couldn’t suspect?… No, impossible. It couldn’t be that.
Charles hastily employed a trick he had learned at school: he sneezed. Then he blew his nose, slowly and carefully. It gave him two or three seconds. By that time he had pulled himself together.
‘Good Lord, Peter!’ he said, and he flattered himself that his manner was no more abnormal than the situation demanded. ‘How do you mean, the inquiry? Has the coroner started another stunt?’
‘No. It’s worse than that. It’s the police. And it’s worse than that, Charles.’ Again Peter sunk his voice. ‘They’ve got a man in from Scotland Yard.’
Then it was that for the first time for weeks absolute sheer panic gripped Charles. He could not indeed speak, in spite of all his efforts. Motionless and sweating, he sat looking at Peter.
But Peter was not looking at Charles. He was gazing vacantly down on the desk with an expression of extreme anxiety. Charles once again pulled himself together. Slowly he got to his feet and began to pace the room.
‘That’s astounding news, Peter,’ he said as soon as he could trust himself to speak. ‘Scotland Yard! How do you know?’
‘How do I know? Because the man’s been with me. Very nice and very polite and all that, and asking questions world without end.’
‘Good Lord!’ Charles exclaimed again. ‘Tell me.’
Peter shrugged. ‘That about covers it,’ he declared. ‘He came to The Moat last night, the Scotland Yard man, he and a sergeant. It was after dinner and he sent in an ordinary visiting card – “Mr Joseph French”. I asked Weatherup what he was like and Weatherup said he didn’t know; he thought they were business men of some kind. I went into the study, and then the first one gave me another card – “Detective-Inspector French, Scotland Yard”. I was surprised, as you can imagine; but I was more surprised when what he wanted came out. “I’ve been sent down, sir,” he said, “to make certain inquiries in connexion with the death of the late Mr Andrew Crowther.”’
‘“His suicide?” I said.
‘“Well, sir,” he answered, “that’s just the point. A question has arisen as to whether it really was or was not suicide, and that’s what I’ve been instructed to inquire into.”’
‘Good Lord!’ said Charles for the third time. He was rapidly recovering his normal frame of mind.
This was a terribly regrettable affair, this inquiry. It would lead to worry and annoyance and anxiety. But that would be all. As he thought over the precautions he had taken, he knew that he was safe. But he must keep his head. Only his own self could give him away.
‘Then he began to ask questions till I scarcely knew whether I was standing on my head or my heels. All about my circumstances, all about the meals I had had with the old man shortly before he died. Every question under heaven you could think of, and a lot more besides. I’m sure he was there the best part of two hours.’
‘And what then?’
‘What then? Isn’t that enough?’
‘Well, I admit it’s a nuisance and all that, but what harm can it do? We have only to answer what he asks, and that’s the end of it.’
Peter shook his head gloomily. ‘Is it, Charles? I hope you’re right.’
Once again Charles was filled with panic. It couldn’t be that this inspector had indicated that he, Charles, was suspected? He must at all costs find this out.
‘How do you mean, is it?’ he asked with some appearance of exasperation. ‘What I say is so, isn’t it? Have you any reason to doubt it?’
Peter looked more worried than ever. He jerked about on his chair, glanced again at the door, and gave every indication of uneasiness. As Charles watched him his panic came on again in great waves. He was suspected, and Peter couldn’t find words to tell him! In spite of himself, Charles’s voice had an edge as he went on uncontrollably: ‘For heaven’s sake, man, get on and say what you have to say. What is it?’
Peter seemed slightly surprised at this outburst. ‘You’re feeling it too?’ he queried, then went on in a burst of confidence: ‘I’ll tell you, Charles, what I’ve never told to mortal, and what’s troubling me now. That evening I dined there; you know, the night before he died?’
‘Yes, of course; go on.’ Charles was sweating with a sudden relief. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with him.
‘You remember the question of the pills?’ went on Peter. ‘Weatherup said at the inquest he had taken one after lunch. And so he had. I saw him take it myself. I leant forward to speak to him and saw him take it.’
‘His indigestion pills?’ said Charles with renewed misgivings. ‘What about them?’
‘It didn’t seem to occur to anyone that the poison might have been in a pill.’
Charles snorted. ‘How could it? Those pills are sold by the hundred thousand. Besides, they were analysed and they were all right.’
‘The rest were analysed, but not the one he took.’
Charles’s anxiety was welling up again. What was Peter after?
‘For heaven’s sake, Peter,’ he burst out, ‘let’s have it and be done with it. What are you getting at?’
Peter moved uneasily. ‘Well, don’t you see? Suppose someone had wanted to murder the old man. All one had to do was to put a poisoned pill in the bottle.’
‘Rot! How could he get the bottle? Or the pill, for that matter?’
‘I think it might have been done.’
‘Was that what the inspector suggested?’
‘No, of course he didn’t. What do you take him for? But he might have thought it.’
‘Hell!’ Charles cried testily. ‘Might have thought it! He might have thought the old man was bitten by a rattlesnake. I don’t know what you’re trying to get at, Peter.’
Again Peter hesitated. He seemed most unwilling to go on. Then at last he took the plunge. ‘Something very unfortunate happened that night,’ he explained. ‘A matter of absolutely no importance in itself, but now, since the old man’s death, no one knows how important it mayn’t become. I’ll tell you.’
Again he glanced at the door and still further lowered his voice. ‘After dinner, when the old man, Crosby and myself were sitting over our wine, Crosby went out to the hall to get some papers from his coat-pocket. He was out of the room for two or three minutes. The old man seized the opportunity to take his pill. It happened that absent-mindedly I picked up the bottle of pills to read the label. You know how one does those sort of things, without any real object. I didn’t want to know what they were, but I did it the way one sketches on one’s blotting-paper. You know?’
‘Of course. But I don’t see. What matter if you did?’
‘None in a sense, but it just happened that when I had it in my hand Weatherup passed, and he saw me holding it.’
Charles gasped. So that was it! Peter was afraid of being suspected. Charles almost laughed in his relief. He did not, in fact, entirely repress a chuckle.
‘Why, you cuckoo,’ he cried, ‘you’re not imagining you’ll be suspected?’ Peter didn’t answer. ‘Peter, you’re not? You’re not really such an almighty fool?’
‘It’s not so foolish as you seem to think,’ Peter said gloomily. ‘Look at it this way. The old man was in a normal frame of mind at the time of his death. Weatherup swore he was neither upset nor depressed nor unduly excited, and I had to agree. He took his lunch normally, and he was keen to get to Paris to see Elsie. Well, from all that it can be argued that he wasn’t very likely to do himself in.’
‘All that was known to the coroner’s jury, and yet they brought in suicide.’
‘I know, but it was because they couldn’t account for the thing in any other way. Supposing now you add to all that, that the poison could have been put into one of those confounded pills, and supposing that on the evening before he died I was seen actually handling the bottle – what about that?’
‘Nothing about it. You weren’t the only one. Anyone in the house could have tampered with that bottle.’
‘Yes; but no one in the house was hard up and had been trying to get cash out of the uncle, which up to then he had refused.’
‘You said – and Crosby confirmed your statement – that he intended to give you some.’
‘Ah, yes – intended. But he hadn’t done so. Besides, what would I have got for a mortgage on the farm compared to what Elsie would have got if the old man had pegged out?’
‘But, man alive, you mustn’t deliberately make a case against yourself. All that’s biased.’
‘It’s the case that the police may make. I have to admit it’s reasonable from their point of view, and so must you. There’s no use in sticking your head in the ground, Charles. Everything I’ve said is a fact. They may take that view.’
‘Well, damn it, suppose they do? What matter? They can’t prove anything.’
‘They can prove all that. Will they need to prove anything more?’
For the second time the cold hand of fear descended on Charles’s heart. Was Peter right? Would they need to prove anything more? And if they didn’t, where would he, Charles, come in?
Here was a contingency he had never in his wildest moments foreseen. That his scheme should succeed so completely that not only he himself should not be suspected, but that his cousin’s husband be brought in guilty! Beads of sweat broke out on Charles’s forehead. If this ghastly thing really happened, what would he do?
He couldn’t, he couldn’t let Peter suffer – what he would suffer. But if Peter didn’t, then he himself… Una…
But they couldn’t bring Peter in guilty on such evidence! And yet could they not?
Charles shivered. The more he thought over the situation, the less he liked it. And the fact that this inspector had asked Peter about his movements that evening did certainly look as if he had something of the kind in his mind.
But wait a minute. They couldn’t prove that Peter had any poison. Charles turned with some eagerness.
‘You had no poison,’ he suggested.
‘No,’ said Peter, nodding his head. ‘I thought of that. It’s good as far as it goes. But you know, Charles, it doesn’t go very far. They might argue I had gone upstairs and got the stuff from his dark-room.’
‘Were you upstairs?’
‘Not then, but I have been upstairs.’
‘Nothing in it, Peter. You couldn’t have been guilty be
cause you hadn’t any poison. And since you really hadn’t any poison they can’t prove you had.’
Peter seemed mildly comforted. ‘You really think so?’ he insisted with a kind of wistful eagerness.
Charles reassured him as best he could when his own mind was a quaking morass. ‘What you’ve got to do,’ he told him, ‘is to think up all the reasons you can why you must be innocent. If they accuse you, why not Crosby, why not Weatherup, why not Aunt Penelope, or even Margot? Why select you?’
‘That’s no good.’ Peter shook his head mournfully. ‘Motive. No one but I had any real motive. None of the others were hard up.’
‘You don’t know. Inquiries might show that Weatherup, to take the first name that comes, was stony. Why, for all we know to the contrary, he might have slipped something into the old man’s food in the plane. You see what I mean. If they go for you they must produce proof.’
‘They know I was hard up. They can find out from my bank just how hard. No, Charles, that cat won’t jump. Of course the inspector never hinted that he thought anything of the kind, but then he wouldn’t.’
‘No,’ said Charles slowly, ‘I don’t suppose he would.’
For some moments silence reigned, then Charles went on. ‘But what gets me is – what has raised the confounded thing now? Has anything new come out?’
Peter shook his head despondently. ‘I’m damned if I know. I’ve a sort of idea they were never satisfied at all; that they just let the coroner go ahead because they weren’t ready to do anything else. A lot of these police don’t care two hoots about a coroner.’
Charles absently agreed. Peter ground out the stump of his cigarette and got up.
‘There’s no use in worrying overmuch,’ he said, though his looks belied his speech. ‘You’ll come and dine as soon as we’ve settled down?’
‘Thanks, I’d like to.’
‘Right; I’ll let you know. Don’t come out, Charles. I can find my way.’
When Peter had gone, stark fear once again settled down on Charles. How beyond words ghastly if Peter should really be arrested! What should he, Charles, do? Dare he risk waiting to speak till after the trial? Then of course…
The 12.30 from Croydon Page 17
