Madge lifted to Stuart North a face whose tear-stains she did not seem in any hurry to remove.
“Poor darling Maurice,” she murmured. “And now—and now poor sweet little Gloria…” She turned to Humbleby. “I know it’s awful about Gloria,” she pleaded, with a catch in her voice, “but Maurice was nearer to me, and somehow—oh, I don’t want to be brutal, but somehow it seems so awful to be talking calmly about her when darling Maurice is next door, l-lying—”
“Lying dead.” It was Medesco, cold, massive and immovable, who contributed this unfeeling gloss—and as he spoke, Madge’s pretty face grew suddenly mean and spiteful.
“You mind what you’re saying,” she told him, her voice sharp and purposive, “or I’ll see to it that you never get another—”
She stopped abruptly, belatedly aware that this would not do. In another moment, and with an aplomb which Fen could not but admire, she was quietly sobbing, the heel of one slim and delicate hand pressed shamefastly against her brow.
“Oh God, I’m getting hysterical,” she whispered. “I’m getting overwrought. Stuart… darling…”
Stuart North somewhat ineptly patted her shoulder, uttering condolences which would have been more effective if they had not coincided with a prolonged fit of coughing. And Nicholas, who had been contemplating his sister without any very evident sympathy, took the opportunity of repeating his question to Humbleby.
“Oh, that.” Humbleby had abandoned his official manner and seemed friendly and confiding. “That’s easy. We don’t understand why Miss Scott killed herself, and as we’re professional busybodies we want to find out. We know she was cheerful and normal at lunch-time that day; we also know that at two a.m. that night she committed suicide. So you see, it’s a question of trying to discover what upset her, and your party is a possible line of approach.” Humbleby raised his voice to address the company at large. “Listen, please, everybody. I want to know all you can tell me about what Gloria Scott said and did at Thursday evening’s party, what sort of mood she was in, and so forth… Was there any special reason for the party, by the way?”
Nicholas grinned, not unattractively. “It was my birthday.”
“Congratulations,” said Humbleby politely. “A very good pretext for a party, I always think… And now, about Gloria Scott…”
She had been almost the last to arrive, he learned, and the time of her arrival was agreed to have been roughly ten o’clock. She had been cheerful enough. And the only odd thing was that in the first minute or two something had apparently startled her. It was Nicholas and Caroline Cecil who were the witnesses to this; the others, Humbleby gathered, had not noticed it.
“Startled?” he said. “In what way startled?”
“Oh… rather as if she’d seen a ghost,” said Caroline Cecil. She was an agreeable, black-haired girl who in private life compensated for her screen roles with an unflagging amiability. “It didn’t last long—she got over it almost at once. I asked her what was the matter, and she embarked on some tale about imagining the elastic of her knickers had given way.” Miss Cecil chuckled earthily. “I admit that sort of thing does give you a turn—but just the same, I didn’t believe a word of it: it was obviously a smoke-screen.”
“But a smoke-screen for what?”
Miss Cecil shook her head. “There you’ve got me. And as I say, it didn’t last.”
“Apart from that she was cheerful, was she?”
“We-ell.” Miss Cecil pursed her lips dubiously. “She was thoughtful, I’d say. Not gloomy. Just thoughtful. As though there were a problem she had to work out—not a distressing problem, but a difficult one.”
“Not, in fact, the sort of problem that would drive her to suicide?”
“Good Lord, no. She’d forget about it for minutes at a time, and be just as riotous as the rest of us. Then she’d remember it again and go all distrait.”
“Was she watching any particular person there?”
“Well,” said Miss Cecil, “I did get the impression that she was avoiding watching some particular person. But that may have been just a romantic fancy of mine—and which of the gang it was I can’t tell you.”
“Who did she talk to?”
“Everyone, I should say. The party was getting pretty lively when she arrived, and people were shifting about a lot. She got landed with me to start with, but that wasn’t for long, and I honestly can’t remember how she made out later. By midnight,” said Miss Cecil, pleased, “the males had got their sexual steam up, and us girls were being bounced from hand to hand like a lot of beachballs… So we none of us had much time to watch what the others were doing. It really was a lovely party,” she concluded in heartfelt tones.
And this seemed to be the general opinion; people had been so busy enjoying themselves that they had had no attention to spare for Gloria Scott, and although it was agreed that she had not seemed at all in a suicidal frame of mind, there emerged nothing more substantial concerning her than the information Caroline Cecil had already given. Had she run amok, with a bread-knife—thought Humbleby gloomily—the occurrence might have been noted and remembered; but any nuance of behaviour subtler than that had been doomed by the circumstances to be swept permanently out of recollection the instant after it happened.
“And when did she leave?” he asked.
She had been the last to go, Nicholas Crane said. A small diehard contingent which included Medesco, Caroline Cecil and Evan George had made their farewells and clattered downstairs into the street, and Gloria Scott had remained behind for a minute or two, alone in the flat, with her host.
“Why was that?” said Humbleby.
“She wanted to talk about her part in The Unfortunate Lady. Getting it had rather gone to her head. I shooed her away as soon as I possibly could. Films are just work as far as I’m concerned, and when I’m not actually doing that work I like to forget about it.”
“And you didn’t upset her in any way?”
“Good heavens, no. She went off quite happily to join the others, who were still hanging about chatting on the pavement. That was about two in the morning, I fancy.”
“And you others—did you find her cheerful when she came out of the flat and joined you?”
Medesco sniffed. “We didn’t have time to notice, my dear man,” he growled. “She picked up Evan George in a single comprehensive movement and trotted away with him towards Piccadilly… ‘You’ll take me home, won’t you, Mr. George?’” Medesco mimicked. “And pouf!—they’d gone.”
Humbleby turned to that novelist, who was slightly flushed with embarrassment. “Did you know her well, then, sir?”
“I never set eyes on her before the party,” said George hurriedly. “It’s quite true—you can ask anyone.” He looked round for support. “She’d—well, she’d been making up to me a bit during the evening. I don’t know why, I’m sure,” he said apologetically, “because there were plenty of younger men about… Anyway, it’s true that she asked me to take her home. We went off to try and find a taxi.”
“And what did you talk about while you were finding it?”
George looked blank as he struggled to remember. “Oh, anything and everything,” he said at last with exacerbating vagueness. “The party. The film—I told her a bit about what had been going on at script conferences. Oh, and just people. The trouble is,” he said uncomfortably, “that I was a bit under the weather… But she didn’t look to me as if she was going to commit suicide, and I’m sure I can’t have said anything to upset her. Damn it, I scarcely knew the girl.”
“And in the end you didn’t take her home?”
“No, I didn’t. I was quite liking the prospect, I tell you that frankly, but when we got to the Piccadilly end of Half Moon Street she suddenly flared up at something I said.”
“What was that?”
“Well, it was about Miss Crane.” George cleared his throat uneasily and flushed again. “I just happened to mention how much I admired her looks.” Miss Crane, at t
his, smiled a little smile which combined in very masterly fashion diffidence, gratitude and overweening sadness at her brother’s death. “Obviously that was a mistake, because Miss Scott said something like: ‘Oh, for God’s sake, must you talk about other women when you’re with me?’ and there was a cab coming along and she hailed it and ran and got into it without saying good night or anything, and just drove off leaving me standing there.”
“It doesn’t sound to me,” said Medesco, “as if she was in a very well-balanced state of mind. And my own recollection is that you’d reached such an advanced stage of alcoholic stupor that you wouldn’t have noticed if she’d stopped in her tracks and stripped herself naked.”
“I’ve already admitted,” said George with an attempt at dignity which his size, and the ravaged condition of his clothes, somewhat nullified, “that I was a bit under the weather.” He paused. “Come to think of it, though, she was rather silent. I seemed to be doing most of the talking.” He scratched his head. “I wish I could remember more about it—I’m afraid I’m not being a very good witness.”
“None of this is helpful,” said Humbleby with candour. “Mr. Crane, was there any opportunity for Miss Scott to talk to anyone, or make a ‘phone call or read a letter, between the time she left you and the time she joined the group on the pavement?”
Fen had been watching Nicholas, and had been interested to observe in him, as Evan George’s narrative proceeded, an appearance of growing relief. By now he appeared to be positively light-hearted.
“None whatever, Inspector,” he said. “I took her down to the door myself and saw her join the others before I closed it.”
Humbleby flicked his fingers in uncontrollable irritation; the evidence was nebulous to a degree, and an explanation of the motive for Gloria Scott’s suicide apparently as far off as ever. Something had startled her—no one knew what. And something, at some stage in the proceedings, had been said to her which had caused her to brood and brood more and more dementedly, until on Waterloo Bridge the thread of reason had snapped and an insane impulse had scourged her with horrible pain into eternity… But why? And as Humbleby, recalling the question he had been told to press, glanced at Fen, he saw that Fen was very slightly shaking his head. It was likely, the gesture said, that Nicholas Crane could not be induced to change his story, and any effort expended in that direction would certainly be effort wasted. Humbleby went on, accordingly, to the last questions which he had to ask.
“Just who,” he demanded, “was responsible for giving Miss Scott the part of Martha Blount in The Unfortunate Lady? Mr. Stafford, was it?”
Nicholas looked surprised. “The final decision was his, of course. He’s producing.”
“And did he select the girl on his own initiative?”
“No,” said Nicholas. “I put him up to it.”
“You did?” It was Humbleby’s turn to be surprised. “Not your brother Maurice?”
“Not my brother Maurice,” said Nicholas gravely.
“May I be told your reasons?”
“Certainly. She wasn’t at all a bad actress—she had a cameo part in Visa for Heaven, which I directed, so I knew what she could do—and in appearance and physique she fitted the part. And besides that, I liked her, and wanted to give her a leg-up. Fortunately, the casting of Martha Blount was one of the few things in the film that Mr. Leiper didn’t have preconceived ideas about, and Jocelyn had an open mind on the subject, so he accepted my recommendation quite readily.”
“And you, Miss Crane,” said Humbleby with deceptive mildness. “Did you think it was a good selection?”
Without thinking, she burst out: “I thought it was a—” But then, as she became conscious of Stuart North’s regard, her tone altered. “Why, yes, of course. Gloria needed training and experience, but one day she was going to be a very, very good actress: I was looking forward to working with her.”
“Were you, dear?” Caroline Cecil spoke with tempered malice. “I did get the impression that you were a little bit doubtful about it.”
“Oh no, darling,” Madge answered sweetly. “Or if I was, it was only because I was afraid that Gloria might damage her chances by not being quite up to standard. You see, Inspector, you have to be so awfully careful in the film business; because if you fail just once you’re never forgiven.”
“And you didn’t”—Humbleby’s tones flattered like an unguent—“you didn’t at all resent Mr. North’s attentions to her?”
For a fraction of a second there was hatred in Madge’s eyes; then, as though a lantern-slide had been whisked from a screen and another substituted for it, she was all amazement.
“But why should I? I didn’t even know that Stuart was interested in her.” She looked up at him. “Were you, darling?”
Mr. North vociferously sneezed.
“I don’t quite know how you’d define ‘interested’,” he said peevishly. “I took her out once or twice, if that’s what you mean, but there was nothing serious about it… How the hell have we got on to this dreary topic, anyway? What does it matter?”
He looked at Capstick, who nodded haplessly—and then, resipiscently and with equal ambiguity, shook his head.
“Anyway, it provides us with a sequitur”—Humbleby was unperturbed—“to my final questions: which concern the relationship between Miss Scott and Mr. Maurice Crane.”
“Final,” echoed Medesco. “Let’s hope they are. I want my lunch.”
“I believe”—once more Humbleby was addressing himself to Nicholas—“I believe that last Christmas Miss Scott was staying in your household. Is that right?”
“She stayed at my mother’s house.”
“You yourself don’t live there?”
“No. Nor Madge. Maurice and David do.”
“I should like to know who invited her.”
“Maurice did.”
“Were you there at the time of this visit?”
“No. David and I were away sailing in Bermuda.”
“And in that case your brother Maurice would be the only man in the house—unless your father—”
“My father died years ago… Yes, Maurice would have been the only man in the house. Was Gloria going to have a baby?”
“She was, yes… And now, Mr. Crane, if you’ll just let me have a complete list of the guests at your party…”
It was done; and presently the assembly dispersed. Nicholas, Madge and Stuart North were the last to leave the room, and Nicholas nodded to Fen as he went.
“This is very much your element, isn’t it?” he said in passing.
“Perhaps,” said Fen non-committally. “May I give you a word of advice?”
“Please do.”
“For a few days,” said Fen, “don’t eat or drink anything that other people aren’t eating and drinking. That goes for your sister, too… And suppose you wanted to break an actress’s contract without getting into legal trouble—how would you set about it?”
Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. “Well, well,” he murmured. “There’s a law of slander, Professor Fen. If you should think of making any rash accusations, I’m sure it could be brought into service against you. So be careful, there’s a good man…and good-bye for now. We shall meet again, I hope.” With a quick smile he went.
An hour later, after a hurried ale-and-sandwich lunch at “The Bear”, Fen was on his way back to Oxford. He gave little thought to the morning’s events, for he realised that without more data speculation would yield nothing new. Instead, he fell to conceiving and casting a film about Wordsworth and Annette, and this, combined with occasional sanitary draughts of Jamesian hyperbole, kept his mind occupied until he arrived home.
On the morning of the following day—which was the Sunday—he was removing his gown in his rooms in College after attending Matins when the telephone rang, and with a civility begotten probably of awe the operator announced a Personal Call from New Scotland Yard.
“Gervase Fen speaking,” said Fen.
“Mr. Gerva
se Fen?”
“Speaking.”
“One moment, please, Mr. Fen.” The diaphragm of the receiver crackled morosely at Fen’s ear. “You’re through now. I say, you’re through now, Mr. Fen.”
“Yes, very well.”
“Are you there?”
“Gervase Fen speaking now.”
“Here is your call, sir.”
The line immediately went dead—but presently, as the consequence of a series of reverberating clicks, it was possible to make out a murmur of background noises: a typewriter, crockery, conversation, someone whistling. Fen put the instrument down in order to light a cigarette. After about half a minute the mistrustful hallo-ing of Humbleby, issuing from it like the voice of an incarcerated elf, caused him to pick it up again.
“Are you there?” Humbleby was saying. “Is anyone there at all?”
“Calm yourself,” said Fen, “and tell me what has happened.”
“Oh, there you are at last… Well, they’ve done the autopsy on Maurice Crane, and it’s as you said: he was poisoned.”
“What with?”
“Colchicine.”
Fen frowned. “Colchicine? Well, well. It’s a pity we bothered about the coffee-cups, then.”
“Oh, so you know all about colchicine, do you? I’m damned if I did: poisoners aren’t usually so—um—esoteric in their choice.”
“How was it administered? “
“In a bottle of some tonic he was taking. Bagley routed it out when he went to the house late last night.”
“And when?”
“It could have been almost any time. The house is one of those big, rambling affairs where you can easily sneak in and out. I can’t pin it down at all.”
“Well, obviously Crane drank the stuff before leaving for the studios yesterday morning—so that must be the terminus ad quem.”
“Yes. But it’s the terminus a quo that’s the trouble. The bottle says twice daily after meals, but people often forget to take medicine—or else just can’t be bothered.”
“M’m. How do you stand?”
“I’m officially in charge now. Capstick persuaded his Chief Constable to call in the Yard, and I persuaded the A.C. to let me postpone my holiday and take the case on.”
Frequent Hearses Page 8
