‘Oh, rubbish!’ the novelist interjected. ‘If you’re referring to the kind of scene I think you are, then you should know I reserve it exclusively for a book’s climax. I mean the chapter in which the detective assembles all the suspects in the library then demonstrates, step by meticulous step, just how and why the murder was committed. Not the same thing at all.
‘But I have to say,’ she went on thoughtfully, ‘I do believe Henry’s idea is a good one. None of us will be able afterwards to accuse anyone of seeking to lay the blame elsewhere. Not that any of us would, of course. Then again, you never can tell, can you?’
‘Well,’ said Trubshawe, ‘that’s two in favour. Miss Rutherford?’
‘I’m going to surprise you,’ said the actress, ‘but I’m for it. Surprise you, I say, because I’ve got more to lose than any of you.’
‘Oh? And why is that, Cora?’ asked the Colonel.
‘Listen, darling, we now know we all have skeletons in our cupboards. I mean, what with that stinker Gentry spewing his rancid guts out last night, our dirty little secrets are practically in the public domain, right?’
‘Er, well – yes, I suppose so, right.’
‘But mine are a star’s dirty little secrets. They’re of interest to everyone. I tell you, there are muckraking journalists in Fleet Street who’d pay a small fortune to get the lowdown on my private life. However, I also know I didn’t murder Raymond Gentry and I’m ready to answer Trubshawe’s questions so long as I have his assurance that anything that turns out not to be relevant to the case stays within these four walls.’
‘That goes without saying,’ said Trubshawe.
‘Nevertheless,’ replied the actress, ‘I’d like to hear it said. When someone like you says, “That goes without saying”, he can always claim afterwards, perfectly honestly, that he never actually said it.’
The Chief-Inspector smiled wearily.
‘I solemnly promise not to repeat anything I hear inside this room in the next few hours that proves to have no bearing on the solution to Gentry’s murder. Satisfied?’
‘Satisfied. Then I’m in.’
‘Well,’ said Trubshawe, ‘we seem to be heading for a majority here. For the others, shall we take a vote? Remember, ladies and gentlemen, we can’t proceed unless you’re all prepared to participate. So who, among those of you who haven’t yet spoken up, supports Dr Rolfe’s proposal that I undertake an immediate interrogation at which all of you are present throughout?’
The second hand to be raised was Madge Rolfe’s. Then Don shot up his arm. And then, to everyone’s astonishment, Mary ffolkes more tentatively raised hers – to everyone’s astonishment, because her friends had always known her to be the sort of wife who would wait until she had learned exactly what her husband’s thoughts were on any given topic before daring to air a view of her own.
It was obvious that the Colonel himself was taken aback, for he gave her a sharp glance before (reluctantly?) raising his own arm.
Then there was silence.
Trubshawe finally turned towards the Vicar, who was seated next to his wife, a pained expression on his almost anaemically pale features.
‘Well, Vicar,’ he said. ‘As you see, Miss Mount, Miss Rutherford, Farrar, Mrs Rolfe, Don and now both the Colonel and his wife – they’ve all agreed to be questioned. That leaves just you and your good lady.’
‘Yes, I realise that,’ said the Vicar vexedly. ‘I, uh – well, you see, I – I – I really don’t think it’s –’
‘You do understand, don’t you, that if you refuse, we can’t conduct the investigation at all?’
‘Yes, you have made that point, Inspector.’
‘You’ll all have to sit about waiting for the police to turn up, wondering which of you did it, why they did it and whether they’ll do it again. Is that really what you want?’
‘No, no, of course it’s not, but I shan’t – I shan’t be bullied, you know. I’m a free agent and – well, it does seem – I’m sure Cynthia feels the same way, don’t you, my –’
‘Oh, for cripes’ sake, Clem!’ Cora Rutherford ejaculated. ‘We’re all in this together! And, frankly – I’d never say this except under circumstances as exceptional as these – but, frankly, you really have the least to lose! I would wager, from what Gentry hinted at last night, that most of us have already rumbled your Terrible Secret. And it’s going to come out anyway, whether you like it or not.’
‘She does have a point, Reverend,’ said Trubshawe softly.
The Vicar gazed helplessly at his wife, whose twinkly-eyed decency and pragmatism, precisely the modest English virtues one would expect to find in the helpmeet to a man of the Anglican cloth, were of scant assistance to him in a dilemma of this order. Then he gulped – you could almost hear him gulp – and said:
‘Oh, very well. But I do insist that – that –’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, well, no, nothing. Yes, yes, I agree.’
‘Good,’ said Trubshawe, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
He looked at his watch.
‘Ten-fifteen. You’ve all been up now for over two hours. May I suggest you repair to your bedrooms, freshen up and get dressed. Then we’ll all come together in, let’s say, twenty minutes – inside the library.
‘And what,’ he appended to what he’d already stated, ‘what does go without saying is that none of you take it upon yourself to go wandering up to the attic. Not, you understand, that I don’t trust you. Except that, if Miss Mount is right, and I think she is, there’s at least one person in this room whom none of you can afford to trust. You get what I mean?’
They all got what he meant.
‘So, Colonel,’ he said, ‘would you like to show me the way?’
They were already deep in conversation as they entered the library, Tobermory plodding faithfully behind them.
‘I must say I began to think that Vicar chappie was going to scupper the whole scheme,’ the Chief-Inspector could be heard saying.
‘Yes, he’s something of a fusspot all right,’ answered the Colonel. ‘But he’s also a nice well-meaning old bird and all he needed was a poke in the ribs.’
‘I believe I’ll start the ball rolling with him, just so he’ll have no time to change his mind.’
‘I say, Trubshawe, this is a rum affair and no mistake.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said the policeman. ‘I never in my career came across such an outrageous crime. It’s like something out of one of Evadne Mount’s – whatyamacallums? – whodunits.’
‘Don’t let her hear you say that. Said exactly the same thing myself and had my head snapped off for it.’
‘Really? I’d have thought she’d take it as a compliment.’
‘Oh, you know what people are like. You pay them the wrong kind of compliment and they react as though they’ve never been so insulted in all their lives. Alexis Baddeley, I’ll have you know, won’t be doing with locked-room murders.’
‘Is that so?’ replied a bemused Trubshawe. ‘Choosy about the kind of murders she solves, is she? Wish I could have been.’
‘I’ve no patience with Evie’s stuff myself, but Mary tells me that, apart from locked rooms, you’ll find the whole trumpery bag of tricks. You know, a secret passage that only the murderer has a key to. A clock and a mirror facing each other at the scene of the crime, meaning the dial was read in reverse. Some black sheep of a family shipped off to South Africa and supposed to have died there, except that nobody’s certain he really did. All the usual whodunit hoo-hah. Load of codswallop, if you ask me.’
‘Well, we won’t have to go looking for anything of that kind in this case, I’m sure.’
‘No – except that, as it happens, ffolkes Manor does have its own secret passage. It’s a former Priest’s Hole, you know, located in a panel behind one of these walls. I should show it to you some time.’
‘Thanks. I’d like that. For the moment, though, I can’t see how it could possibly be relevant to Gentr
y’s murder. From what you told me, there was such a loathing of him among your guests, it seems to me that all I’ve got to do is find out the individual reasons for that loathing and, of course, who got there first.’
During the latter part of their conversation, the Colonel had begun to grow slightly fidgety and his agitation at last caught Trubshawe’s eye.
‘Something the matter, Colonel?’
‘Ah well, Trubshawe … yes. Yes, I have to say there is.’
‘What is it?’
‘Well’ – he took a deep breath – ‘you are planning to question all of us, am I right?’
‘Right.’
‘Which means me too, I suppose?’
‘Well, naturally, Colonel. I really don’t know how, in all fairness, if your guests are prepared to submit to the ordeal, I can leave you out. The others simply wouldn’t have it.’
‘No, no, of course not. It’s just that, like Cora, I know I didn’t murder Raymond Gentry and there are certain facts I’ve kept from Mary all these years, facts – from my past, you know – facts that would break her heart if they were suddenly to emerge at this late date. So I thought …’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought, if I were to give you those facts now, in private, just the two of us, you could – well, you could keep them out of the questioning.’
The Chief-Inspector had started shaking his head even before the Colonel finished speaking.
‘I’m sorry, Colonel, but there you’re asking too much of me. We’ve got to have a level playing-field, don’t you agree?’
‘Oh yes, quite. Quite. It’s only that the secrets – secret, I should say – the secret I’m thinking of is a rather special one. In view of the very serious consequences it could have for me, it just can’t be compared with the Vicar’s petty fibs or Evie’s peccadilloes, whatever they could possibly have been.’
‘Still, you really can’t expect me to give you privileged treatment. Not the done thing. Not cricket.’
‘I understand …’
It was clear, however, whether he understood or not, that the Colonel was still unwilling to give up.
‘Then what about this?’ he suggested. ‘What if I tell you now what it is I’m talking about and, when you interrogate me, if you judge, as I’m sure you will, that it’s got nothing to do with the murder, you won’t force me to bring it up?’
The policeman pondered for a few seconds.
‘Colonel,’ he finally agreed, ‘I’ll do what I can. But I make no promises. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
There was a brief silence. Then:
‘So? What is it you have to tell me?’
‘Well, Trubshawe, I haven’t always been the pattern of a model citizen. When I was young, scarcely more than a nipper, I got into a whole series of scrapes. Nothing close to murder or anything like that, but – well, it won’t serve any purpose my reciting all my crimes to you – it’s a lengthy list – I mean, it was a lengthy list – all of this happened a long time ago. But the fact is that in this country I have a criminal record.’
‘Aha.’
‘Aha, indeed. Caught you out there, didn’t I? I mean, to look at me now, who’d ever suspect such a thing? But there you are. The police, naturally, have a set of my fingerprints and, if this business explodes in our faces, it would be extremely disagreeable for me, innocent as I am. And for poor Mary, of course, who’s even more innocent. Not to mention Selina.’
‘I see …’ said Trubshawe, who visibly hadn’t expected such a revelation. ‘So the Yard actually knows your name?’
‘H’m?’
‘I said, the Yard knows your name?’
‘Well, in fact, no.’
‘But they must do, man, if, as you say, you have a criminal record.’
‘No, they don’t. Because Roger ffolkes isn’t my real name.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t you see, I had to change my name. After I’d – well, after I’d paid my debt to society, I left to make my fortune in America and, when I returned, I couldn’t take the risk of one of my former accomplices tracking me down. I’d done jolly well for myself in the States and I felt I deserved a new life. So, surely forgivably, I gave myself a new identity.’
‘Then what is your real name?’
‘It’s Roger all right – just not Roger ffolkes.’
‘Roger what?’
‘Well …’
At this point, the Colonel slowly and almost conspiratorially began casting glances around the room, even though there was no one in it but himself and the Chief-Inspector.
Then, just as he was about to speak, there was a knock at the door.
‘Er, yes, who is it?’
‘It’s Farrar, sir.’
‘Ah, Farrar. Come in, will you?’
‘Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but you should know – you and Mr Trubshawe – that your guests are already on their way downstairs.’
‘I see. Well, thank you. Ready for them, are you, Trubshawe?’
‘Yes, Colonel, I am. But you were going to –’
‘We’ll speak about that later, shall we? When we manage to have a private moment together.’
‘Just as you say, sir, just as you say.’
Chapter Five
In ones and twos, confidently and timidly, the ffolkeses’ guests trooped into the library, its walls lined ceiling-high with identically bound volumes which, as most of them were not merely unread but unopened, made the shelving appear as though it were supporting row after row of cigar-boxes.
Only Selina, still too distressed to make a re-appearance, was missing. But, in the twenty minutes which had elapsed since the others had retired to their rooms, they had all made themselves as presentable as they could for the trial they knew lay ahead of them.
Clem Wattis, to be sure, still looked very much the English Vicar incarnate, with his dog-eared dog-collar and raggedy ill-fitting cardigan, its leather elbow-patches so threadbare they themselves seemed in urgent need of patching. The Doctor, for his part, had gone for a prudently countrified look – checked sports jacket, impeccably creased corduroy trousers and tan suede shoes. As for Don, his canary-yellow V-necked jumper and tartan bow-tie instantly identified him as your typically modern American college student.
Evadne Mount, meanwhile, was wearing one of her yolk-of-egg tweed outfits, along with a pair of singularly unbecoming suet-coloured stockings and shoes so sensible, as they say, you felt like consulting them on whether you should cash in your shares in Amalgamated Copper. From her wardrobe Mary ffolkes had selected a flower-patterned taffeta dress that was unabashedly unfashionable but probably pricier than it looked. Madge Rolfe sported a stylishly plain frock of pale red crushed-velvet, a frock that, even if one had never set eyes on it before, one might have guessed had been worn more than once too often. And the Vicar’s wife had on a shabby brown cotton skirt with, over its matching blouse, a woollen cardigan nearly as shapeless as her husband’s.
Then there was Cora Rutherford. Like all of her thespian ilk, she was always ‘on’, even in deepest Dartmoor. She had decked herself out in a tailored suit in pleated grey tweed and a high-collared silk shirt, around which she’d negligently flung a chic fox-fur throw. Though her eyes were lavish with mascara, and her lips with cyclamen, her only jewellery was a pair of virtually invisible pearl earrings. The actress herself – the message came across loud and clear – was the jewel.
They were all requested to take seats around the Chief-Inspector, who stood in the centre of the room in front of a massive mahogany desk on top of which sat two of Roger ffolkes’s embossed stamp albums, an extra-large magnifying-glass, the typewriter on which Gentry’s notes had been typed out and, of all unlikely, unlovely artefacts, one of those ‘humorous’ ashtrays on whose rim a diminutive top-hatted toper unsteadily supports himself against a lamppost.
When everybody was settled, the Colonel mutely signalled to the detective to assume command.
‘Well now
,’ said the Chief-Inspector, ‘I’d first like to thank you all for being so prompt. Each of you knows why you’re here, so the only thing that remains is for me to decide the order in which you’re questioned.’
He reflectively scanned the party as though he hadn’t already made up his mind who his first victim would be.
‘Perhaps I might call on you, Vicar,’ he said at last, ‘to open the batting?’
The Vicar almost leapt out of his chair.
‘Me!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why … why me?’
‘Well, somebody has to go first, you know,’ said Trubshawe with an only just perceptible twinkle in his eye.
‘Yes, but I …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it does seem unfair to pick on … to …’
‘Of course, if you’d rather not, perhaps you yourself would nominate one of your friends to take your place?’
‘Oh, but that’s also unfair! Oh, calamity!’ groaned the Vicar, who looked as though he were about to burst into tears.
‘Come now, Mr Wattis,’ said his tormentor gently but firmly, ‘aren’t you being a little childish? I promise I’ll do my utmost to make it all as painless as possible.’
Aware not only from the Chief-Inspector’s rebuke but also from the way his friends were staring at him that he had let himself be shown in a rather unattractive light, the Vicar now hastened to retrieve his composure.
‘Oh well … in that case, Mr Trub – I mean, Inspector Trub – that’s to say, Chief-Inspector Trub. Trubshawe! I suppose if you really think …’
‘Yes, Vicar, I do. I really do,’ the policeman nimbly cut in. ‘However –’ he began to add.
‘Yes? You say however?’ the Vicar once more interrupted him, and this time his already squeaky voice came perilously close to cracking.
‘However, I say – in the light of Miss Mount’s account of last night’s events, an account with which, I noted, not one of you present – you yourself included, Vicar – chose to take issue, I feel duty-bound to advise you that the phrase “as painless as possible” shouldn’t be construed to mean that our conversation will be totally, ah, pain-free. You do realise I’m going to have to ask you some very probing – indeed, some very personal – questions?’
The Act of Roger Murgatroyd Page 6
