He showed them round the rooms. In one corner, the great bed; under the large window, his piano, with music scattered about as though somebody had been hastily rifling the music cabinet. On the walls were reproductions of Goya paintings, a coloured print of Augustus John’s portrait of Suggia, and a genuine full-length oil of a very beautiful young woman in black, with a mantilla. The figure, tall and graceful, poised as if to begin a Spanish dance, looked ready to leap from the canvas at the first bar of the music.
“My sister when young...She grew larger and coarser...Who would not, with the life she led...? But she was always beautiful, even in death. She filled men with madness. All except Nicholas Crake. She filled him with fire at first; then he turned to ice. She was as God made her...”
He shrugged his shoulders. “God have mercy on her. Here is my laboratory...”
Little cages with rats and guinea-pigs and mice, all imprisoned and restless for their freedom, or else hungry. The aroma which usually surrounds such creatures was missing presumably killed by the fluid which shone bright green in little bottles attached to the cages out of reach of their occupants. There was a bench filled with all sizes and shapes of glass vessels. Some of the receptacles were large globes, almost like round electric bulbs, of scintillating, iridescent glass. They might have been used for imprisoning fire spirits or shadows. The books scattered everywhere were on esoteric subjects...Alchemy, necromancy, antiquities, customs, ancient and modern medicine. Old leather and calf-bound treatises as large as a man could carry, side by side with new red and green works on morbid psychology and modern clinical practice...
“I have my work. It takes up most of my time. That and music...”
They went back into the bed-sitting-room and sat down. The old man seemed to think that he had to entertain them. Cromwell looked at Littlejohn out of the corner of his eye, but the Inspector’s face was bland and good-humoured.
“Now, sir. Will you please tell me something about the life under this roof before the deaths of the master and mistress of the house?”
“Of course. Ask what you will...”
“First of all, did you say they were estranged?”
“Yes; they went their own ways. It was a misalliance from the start. He was a good man, completely immersed in his work, which was the law. He married my sister in a rush of passion. Her beauty was like wine; intoxicating. Men could not leave her alone. Nicholas was her lover for a time; then he became her husband. You understand...the typical English husband. His attention was divided between her and his work and he would not allow her to invade his working territory. She was Spanish by nature. She did not understand it. She expected marriage to be a permanent love-affair. To Crake, marriage meant a little love, a lot of responsibilities, a fine home and a fine woman to grace it, work, hard work, to keep the menage running...To my sister, it meant love first, the rest after. They didn’t agree...He became more and more engrossed in his work and she sought pleasure elsewhere. She had not far to seek it.”
He recited it all without blame or malice. He might have been describing the habits of a couple of the occupants of his little cages.
“Where did she seek it...?”
He shrugged his shoulders and flicked his long fingers about.
“How can I say? Men came and went. They drove her home; then they called and took her away; but always brought her back. She insisted. She was Catholic and thus bound for ever to her husband.”
The idea sounded a queer one, but Littlejohn didn’t pause to discuss it.
“Who were these men...?”
Uncle Bernard looked outraged.
“Who am I to accuse anyone? She was murdered. Struck down in rage or jealousy. It is your business to discover who did it.”
He rose and poured out a glass of sherry for himself in an exquisite old wine-glass, a long, thin, beautiful rainbow funnel.
“You won’t...? Please excuse me if I drink. I have had very little food for several days...”
He sipped the wine, then drank it slowly and refilled his glass.
“All the same, sir, you’ll help us find the culprit with a lot less trouble if you name the men who associated with your sister.”
“You could count them on the fingers of one hand, sir. She was not promiscuous...You must not think she was...was...loose...”
“I didn’t suggest it. But the names...”
“You will smile and be incredulous. Besides, I was not my sister’s keeper. I didn’t follow her around. I only saw...well...the ardent glances...surreptitious often...of those who came here. That superintendent who tried to bully me, for example. She completely charmed him. He dropped his ridiculous case against me with a caution, on account of my sister. He actually said I ill-used animals. I am not a cruel man, gentlemen. I always give an anaesthetic before I operate...”
“But what when they recover from it?”
“I see they do not suffer. But my work is important. One day I shall lay bare secrets which will astonish the scientific world and completely overthrow materialism...I could...”
His eyes glowed as he lost himself in his obsession...
“The names of the other men, sir?”
“The policeman called several times. His visits always happened to coincide with Nick’s absences. The Superintendent was in a particularly favourable position in that respect. He knew everything about everybody.”
“They were lovers?”
“No.”
“You seem very sure of it.”
“I am. I knew my sister. I knew when she was playing at love and when she was seriously engaged in it. Simpole was for ever outside the pale. He was mad about her, and her invulnerability made him more mad. He is not married; his career is his all. But before Dulcie, career, reputation, all...went by the board. But not his caution. Few people outside this house knew of his visits or of his passion. He hid it all behind that diabolical mask of his.”
“The others?”
“How was I to know the lovers? They did not parade themselves before others. The admirers, the jealous, the ones crazed with desire...yes...I saw them round her like moths round the flame. Even with their wives...they forgot they were not alone.”
“Who did?”
“Arthur Kent, her own brother-in-law...Trotman, the family lawyer...Francis Alkenet, at the big house down the Oddington road and a millionaire...I remember the dinner-parties we held here. They ruined Nick, for his wife spent so much on them. The lights and the food and the music. Perfect settings for love and for Dulcie. All the men...harmless ones, like Bulshaw and Huxtable and Dr. Bastable, would roll their eyes at her and flatter her and perhaps envy Nick a little. But Kent and Trotman and Alkenet hardly troubled to hide their feelings. They vied with each other for her favours; made their wives look small and ugly and blush for very shame for them. And Nick would be the perfect host, calm, unaffected, wrapped safely in the mantle of his philosophy. Had she run away with any of them, I don’t think he would have cared. Although she was my own beloved sister, I tell you, such an event would have been the end of a long agony for him, the release after spiritual and physical imprisonment...”
“Were the three you mentioned, your sister’s lovers?”
“My dear sir! Trotman! I You have seen him. Fat, cruel eyes and mouth, tall flabby figure, completely selfish and a sensualist. No! Never! But Kent...Alkenet. Kent with his culture, his veneer of indifference hiding an iron will, ambitious and single minded in pursuit...maybe. Alkenet...certainly. A horse-rider, a dare-devil, sophisticated and old in worldly knowledge, perfect in technique in handling men, women and livestock...no doubt about it...”
He was cut short. The front door slammed. running footsteps mounted the stairs, and the door of the room flew wide open with such force that the projecting key struck the oak panelling and splintered it.
Nita, her hair flying wildly, her eyes flaming, her breast heaving with fury, ran to her uncle and struck him across the face.
“They didn�
��t arrest you...They let you free when they ought to have hanged you! You and my mother danced with my father dead in the house and now you drink to her speedy forgetting...”
She seized the glass from his hand and flung it in the fireplace where it shattered into a hundred pieces.
“If they don’t hang you, I’ll kill you. Do you hear? I’ll kill you. You told her to kill my father...Then you killed her...”
And she raised her fist and smote him heavily in the mouth until the blood spurted and, in sheer self-protection, he returned the blow, hard, with the back of his hand across her tightened throat. Then she collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing. He bent and stroked her hair.
“My poor Nita. I know your grief, because I feel the same myself. Only mine will not relieve itself in tears. Only when I have killed whoever brought this upon us will I rest...”
She looked up at him with a changed look. He offered her his hand and helped her to her feet, and then she kissed him tenderly on his bleeding lips.
Six – Lepers’ Hollow
LITTLEJOHN and Cromwell waited patiently until this emotional family scene had ended. Cromwell said later, he wondered if the Crakes were always like that. His stolid, English character was aghast at the idea of brawling and drawing blood one minute, and the next, kissing and making friends. “It takes me a long time to get really hopping mad, but when I do, it takes everybody quite a while to get over it,” he said, and he meant it.
“Do you both think you can now answer a few questions?” asked Littlejohn, when the storm had subsided. Nita and her uncle seemed completely reconciled without so much as a word of explanation or apology. The fact that the old man had expressed a desire to kill her mother’s murderer seemed enough for his niece. She forthwith dabbed his swelling mouth with her handkerchief, staunched the blood, hurried to his laboratory and came back with a dressing and plastered the now shapeless top lip with lint.
When Littlejohn spoke, they both looked surprised to find him and Cromwell still there.
“By all means, Inspector. But I seem already to have answered so many questions. Are there more?”
Uncle Bernard said it with difficulty, for his wounds made articulation thick and his Don Quixote moustache was now bristling from his upper lip like a shaving-brush.
“Very many more, sir...For example, did you hear nothing going on whilst your sister was being murdered? Was there no scream, no conversation, no sound of voices at all?”
“Nothing, Inspector. I admit, I was engrossed in my work, the door is a thick one, as you can see, and the house is large and rambling. I heard nothing.”
“And you, Miss Crake...You got home at dead on five. Did you see nothing suspicious, either?”
Nita was sitting now on a stool by the fire, which she had made up with fresh logs from the chest. She looked fresh and alert after her emotional scene with her uncle, as though some mental safety valve had been in operation and done her a lot of good.
“No...Definitely no. There wasn’t a human sound in the house. That’s why I came up and discovered what I did. It was so unearthly quiet that I ran upstairs when I found nothing below.”
“You met nobody on your way here?”
“No.”
“Tell me, please, had your mother any enemies who might have wished her dead?”
Nita looked Littlejohn straight in the face. Her lips tightened and a stubborn light came in her eyes.
“That’s not fair, Inspector. It means telling you a lot of private things about our family that ought not to be divulged. I’m sorry, but I don’t wish to answer...”
Littlejohn accepted and lit a long cheroot, which Uncle Bernard offered him from a small tub. He’d done it before he realized quite what he was doing and Cromwell, also politely asked if he smoked, did the same, rather amazed at the boss being so sociable at such a moment.
“I’m trying to make all this as easy as I can, Miss Crake. I must tell you this, however. The Coroner’s inquest on your mother has merely been adjourned. If we find those who could help us in our inquiries are going to be uncooperative, we have powers to reopen the inquest and have our questions put to those concerned under oath and, if they choose to remain unhelpful, they will be liable to punishment for contempt of court. I’m asking you these questions informally. It is less embarrassing for you to help me now than in open court...”
“It isn’t fair...It’s not just...”
“Do you wish to help us find out who killed your mother?”
“I don’t know...”
She seemed to be labouring under severe mental strain and unable to make up her mind one way or another.
“You don’t know? That’s a strange answer. Are you trying to shield someone?”
“Not particularly. But...well...my mother...”
She screwed up her will and blurted it out, quickly and excitedly, as though she might change her mind if she didn’t say it right away.
“I didn’t like my mother. I may as well be quite candid. You’ll only get it elsewhere if I don’t tell you. I loved my father and I thought she treated him very badly. I don’t care what you think, Uncle Bernard...I nearly hated her...”
Uncle Bernard removed his cigar. He had been calmly listening, eyeing his niece as though appraising her character and power.
“Go on, my dear, I shall understand. I know you loved your father...”
“Yes, I did. And she treated him like a dog. And he was such an angel about it. It was a disgrace...She deserved...”
The rest was lost in a storm of weeping. The girl had borne much before the tragedies at Beyle, and now was at her wits’ end.
“There were others who thought as you did?”
Littlejohn asked it gently as the tears subsided.
“That’s what I object to. There were mother’s friends and father’s. I’m on father’s side and I won’t betray the others who are...”
“You are not betraying them. In fact, you will be helping them. We shall find out in other ways and all will be under suspicion. If you tell us now...”
“What good will it do...?”
“Leave us to judge that.”
“Yes, my dear...You’d better tell the Inspector,” said her uncle.
“The first was Auntie Bee...Father’s sister, Beatrice. She hated mother. The feeling was mutual, I think. They had some terrible scenes and ended by not seeing each other for years, till daddy insisted on being taken to auntie’s house in his last illness. My aunt never wished daddy to marry mother. In fact, it’s said she never wanted him to marry at all. They were so happy at home. But daddy fell in love and it was broken up. It’s said Auntie Bee married Uncle Arthur in a sort of reaction...”
“You confirm that, sir?”
“I do, Inspector,” said Uncle Bernard. “I know more than Nita of all the quarrels, almost violence, that occurred between Mrs. Kent, that’s the Bee Nita mentions, and my sister, whenever scandal got round...and that was often, I can assure you with great regret.”
“And this went on right until your father’s death? There was no reconciliation?”
“None. In fact, I heard...It was Alec who told me and he thought it rather a joke...I heard that Uncle Arthur was sweet on my mother latterly...”
“Have you anything to say about that, Dr. Doane?”
“I mentioned his name to you before Nita came in, you remember. It was quite true. My sister, in one of those strange bursts of childish confidence which she reserved for me, informed me that Beatrice had found out, too. Arthur had told her and had said that he daren’t risk a scandal. His position would not allow it. Dulcie took that badly. She wasn’t used to being dismissed. She did the dismissing herself, as a rule.”
“You think she might have threatened Kent...made a fuss...have seemed likely to cause him to regret the association?”
“That may have been. She said nothing about her feelings in the matter, but if I’m any judge of my sister’s make-up, Kent’s cooling-off would add fuel to
the fire, if only by increasing her desire to satisfy her own vanity.”
At times Uncle Bernard had a strange, detached, scientific way of dissecting even his own nearest and dearest!
“I’ll make a note of that and follow it up...” Cromwell had already done so in his little black book. “Anyone else?”
“Elspeth hated her, too. She treated her like a dog. Poor Elspeth...”
“The old servant I met?”
“Yes. She’s been with the family since daddy was a boy. But she would never have stabbed anyone. She’s too afraid of violence. Sometimes, when rumours have reached her and she’s been sorry for daddy, she’s talked about drowning and poisoning rather wildly, but never of stabbing...She only stayed here for daddy’s sake, and now she’s getting ready to go...”
Littlejohn felt it would be unwise and perhaps indiscreet to discuss her mother’s lovers with Nita, especially after Uncle Bernard had already given them a lead.
“Now, this dancing business,” he said. “You said something about your mother dancing, with your father dead in the house. Was it some kind of wake...like the Irish affairs...or what?”
Nita had evidently forgotten all about the dancing when she became reconciled to her uncle. She was beginning to cast angry looks at the old man again.
“She’s dead now and I can tell you,” said Uncle Bernard. He was quite calm about it, even relieved, as though wishing to get rid of some dread secret, like expelling a morbid foreign body.
“It was all very simple in itself, yet it was so dreadful during her life. It was a secret between her and me...though Nick discovered it. She was a sufferer from tarantism...”
Nita’s eyes opened wide.
“Whatever’s that? I’m a nurse, but that’s a new one to me...”
Uncle Bernard smiled.
“I don’t expect you’ve ever come across it. It isn’t found much in these parts. It is caused by a bite from a tarantula, a spider, found in Spain. Your mother suffered from it. When she was a girl, she was gathering corn at a farm where our family were spending a summer holiday...”
Crime In Leper's Hollow Page 7
