‘I have no objection, since I assume that –’ Mr Poulton paused, allowing his eye to fall upon the chair by the telephone. ‘Precisely,’ he said.
‘Oh, no, that’s all right!’ Hemingway said, under standing his cryptic utterance. ‘I don’t think I shall be keeping you for many minutes either, sir.’ He saw that Poulton was looking at his second-in-command, and said: ‘Inspector Grant. Sit down, sir! I understand you left the library at some time during Mr Seaton-Carew’s absence from it. I think I have all that in Inspector Pershore’s notes. Was the deceased a friend of yours?’
Poulton shrugged. ‘Hardly that. I suppose I’ve met him half a dozen times.’
The Chief Inspector, before entering the drawing-room, had read Pershore’s voluminous notes, and he had an excellent memory for relative detail. ‘Did he visit your house, sir?’
‘I daresay,’ Poulton replied, his heavy-lidded eyes
dwelling indifferently on the Chief Inspector’s face. ‘My wife entertains a great deal, but I am a very busy man, and I am not invariably present at her parties.’
‘Quite so, sir. Mr Seaton-Carew was Lady Nest’s friend rather than yours?’
‘It would be more accurate to say that he was an acquaintance of hers. My wife originally met him through her friendship with Mrs Haddington.’
‘Were you on good terms with him, sir?’
Again Poulton shrugged. ‘Certainly – though that’s a somewhat exaggerated way of describing it. If you mean, had I quarrelled with him – No. If, on the other hand, you mean, did I like the man? Again, no.’
‘It’s a funny thing about this Seaton-Carew,’ remarked Hemingway, ‘that he seems to have been a popular sort of a character, and yet he got himself murdered.’
‘Very funny,’ agreed Poulton. ‘Perhaps you are confusing popularity with usefulness. Unattached men, Chief Inspector, are greatly in demand amongst hostesses.’
‘Ah, very likely!’ said Hemingway. ‘Well, it doesn’t seem as though you can help me much, sir, so I won’t keep you any longer.’
Inspector Grant rose, and opened the door.
‘Thank you,’ said Poulton. ‘I shall be glad to get to bed. I have a heavy day ahead of me. Good-night!’
The Inspector closed the door behind him, and glanced across at his superior. ‘You did not press him, sir.’
‘No, I’m never one to waste my time. If you were to have given Mr Godfrey Poulton the choice between having a sewer-rat loose in his house or the late Seaton-Carew, it’s my belief he’d have chosen the rat. Make a note of Lady Nest: we’ll see what she has to say. I’d better interview this Butterwick now. Fetch him down, Sandy!’
The Inspector lingered. ‘Would that one have had the time to have committed the murder, you think?’
‘Any of them would have had time and to spare. In fact, this is one case where the time-factor isn’t going to bother us – or help us either, for that matter! As far as I can make out, it was anything from ten to twenty minutes between Seaton-Carew’s being called to the ‘phone and Sir Roderick’s finding him dead. How long do you reckon it would take you to nip up half a flight of stairs, twist a wire round a bloke’s neck, and nip down again?’
‘It is in my mind,’ said the Inspector, ‘that it would have been a strange thing for him to have gone into a room where he knew a man to be speaking on the telephone.’
‘You mean you think it would have put Seaton-Carew on his guard. It might, and it mightn’t. Of course, if Seaton-Carew had reason to think Poulton wanted to do him in, I agree that you’d expect to find some sign of a struggle. Supposing he hadn’t? Supposing this Poulton-bird walked in, just said, “Excuse me!” as though he’d just come to fetch something?’
‘Och, mo thruaighe! ‘ exclaimed the Inspector. ‘What would he have come there to fetch, tell me that?’
‘By the time Seaton-Carew had thought that one up,’ retorted Hemingway, ‘the wire was round his throat! Mind, I don’t say it happened like that, but even if it didn’t there’s no need for you to make those noises, which I take to be highly insubordinate. Go and fetch that pansy down to me!’
Mr Sydney Butterwick, ushered into the boudoir a few minutes later, flinched perceptibly, but seemed to have himself fairly well in hand. His face still bore traces of the emotions which had ravaged it, but he was able to smile, albeit a little nervously, at Hemingway, and to assure him that if he could possibly be of assistance to the police they could count upon his cooperation.
‘I was devoted to Dan!’ he said. ‘Utterly devoted to him! I suppose anyone will tell you that. In some ways, you know, he was rather a marvellous person. Slow extravert, of course, and I’m definitely a quick extravert, but with a certain amount of overlap, if you know what I mean. I suppose you might call me an intuitive extravert. I’d better tell you at once that I wasn’t in the least blind about Dan! In fact, I recognised and accepted him for what he was. In some ways, I do absolutely agree that he was just a handsome brute, and I shan’t deny for one moment that I used to quarrel with him quite terribly. As a matter of fact he upset me rather poignantly tonight, and it’s the most ghastly thought that the last time I saw him I was furious with him! Well, not so much furious as wounded. Of course, I know I take things to heart too much: my type always does – I don’t know if you’ve read Jung?’
Inspector Grant’s gaze shifted to the Chief Inspector’s face. The Chief Inspector had two hobbies: one was the Drama; and the other, which he pursued to the awe, amusement, and exasperation of his colleagues, was Psychology. He had listened amiably to Mr Butterwick’s flow of words, but at this challenge he lost patience. ‘Yes, and Wendt, Münsterburg, Freud, and Rosanoff as well!’ he replied tartly. ‘That’s how I know you don’t belong to the Autistic Type. I haven’t had time yet to decide whether you’re Anti-Social, or Cyclothymic, but I daresay I’ll make up my mind about that presently.’
This unexpected rejoinder threw Sydney off his balance. He said, with a titter: ‘How marvellous to meet a policeman interested in psychology! I think I’m definitely the AntiSocial, or Hysteric Type. I mean, I haven’t a single illusion about myself. It’s fatal not to face up to oneself, isn’t it? For instance, although I adore Michael Angelo I do realise that that’s probably an expression of empathy-wish, in the same way that –’
‘Sit down, sir!’ said Hemingway.
Sydney obeyed him, passing a hand over his waving fair locks, and then mechanically straightening his tie. ‘Do ask me any questions you like!’ he invited. ‘I shall answer them absolutely honestly!’
‘That’s very sensible of you, sir,’ said the Chief Inspector dryly. ‘Suppose you were to tell me, as a start, what was the cause of your quarrel with Mr Seaton-Carew last night?’
‘He had hurt me,’ replied Sydney simply.
‘How did he manage to do that?’
‘I hadn’t seen him for three days, and he wouldn’t speak to me on the telephone. That was the sort of thing he used to do, when he was in that mood. Teasing me, you know, but not really meaning to hurt. He told me once that I took life
too hard, and I suppose it was true, but –’
‘You thought he was sick of you, didn’t you?’ interrupted Hemingway ruthlessly.
‘Oh – ! Not really!’
Hemingway glanced at the notes under his hand. ‘You said to him, I suppose that means you’re fed up with me! and he replied, All right, I am! Is that correct, sir?’
The colour rushed up to the roots of Sydney’s hair. He exclaimed in a trembling voice: ‘How do I know what I said? I suppose you got that out of that little bitch of a Haddington girl!’
‘Do you, sir? Why?’
‘I’ve no doubt Cynthia Haddington imagines that just because he took a little notice of her Dan was in love with her!’ said Sydney, trembling slightly, and quite ignoring the Chief Inspector’s question. ‘Well, he wasn’t! He wasn’t! And if she’s stuffed you up with some tale of my being jealous of her, it just makes me want to laugh!
That’s all!’
Anything further removed from laughter than Mr Butterwick’s aspect would have been hard to have found; but Hemingway, while making a mental note of this fact, forbore to pursue the matter. He merely requested Sydney to describe to him what had been his movements from the moment of his leaving his table to get himself a drink to the moment of his re-entry into the drawing-room.
‘Oh, of course, if it interests you –’ said Sydney, shrugging his shoulders.
‘A Chruitheir! ‘ uttered Inspector Grant under his breath.
‘There’s really nothing to tell,’ said Sydney. ‘We had
finished playing that particular hand at my table, and I seized the opportunity to go down to the dining-room, that’s all. I didn’t see anyone, except the butler, if that’s what you want to know.’
‘Didn’t see anyone, sir? I understand that you had some conversation with Mrs Haddington, at the top of the stairs.’
‘Oh, that! I thought you meant, did I see Dan, or anyone else, who might have killed him. Yes, I believe I did exchange a word or two with Mrs Haddington, but I don’t remember what was said. Quite unimportant, in any case.’
‘Was anyone else on the landing, or the stairs, when you came out of the drawing-room, sir?’
‘I really don’t remember. I don’t think so.’
‘What was Mrs Haddington doing on the landing?’
‘Good God, how should I know? She was going up to the second floor – in fact, she started to go up when I went down.’
‘Miss Birtley, I take it, had gone down before you followed her?’
‘Yes – that is, I suppose she must have, because, to tell you the truth, I don’t recall seeing her. I daresay she may have been there: I wouldn’t notice. And, of course, since it all happened mere trivialities have passed from my mind.’
‘Did you hear the telephone-bell ringing, sir?’
‘No, but I probably wouldn’t, because it’s got a muffled bell, and only makes a sort of burring noise.’
‘Is that so? How do you happen to know that, sir?’
Sydney stared at him for a moment. The smile wavered on his lips. ‘Oh – oh, this isn’t my first visit to the house!’
‘I see. And you didn’t hear it tonight, didn’t know the
call was for Mr Seaton-Carew, and didn’t hear anything that passed between Mrs Haddington and Miss Birtley? I want to get this quite straight, sir, so that Inspector Grant can take it down accurately, and we shan’t have to make a lot of corrections later.’
Sydney glanced at the impassive Inspector, and from him to Hemingway. Once more he smoothed his hair. ‘No, I don’t know what they said. I mean, now you bring it to my mind I do seem to remember vaguely that Miss Birtley was there, but that’s definitely all. If you’re thinking that I knew she’d gone to fetch Dan up to take the call, and that it was I who murdered him in that ghastly way – well, you’re not only wrong, but it’s utterly absurd! If you must know, I was terribly upset by the whole affair – anyone will tell you that! It was the most appalling shock: in fact, for a moment I damned nearly fainted!’ He glanced at Inspector Grant, seated with a notebook in one hand, and a pencil in the other, and burst out angrily: ‘It’s no use asking me to sign a statement, because I won’t! I’m too terribly shattered to know what happened this evening!’
‘Well, you haven’t made a statement yet, have you, sir?’ said Hemingway. ‘All you’ve done is to answer a few questions, and hand me a few lies, which it’s only fair to tell you I don’t believe.’
‘You’ve no right to say that!’ Sydney declared, a trifle shrilly. ‘You’ve no shadow of right to talk to me like that!’
‘Well, if that’s what you think, sir, all you have to do is to lodge a complaint against me with the Department,’ replied Hemingway. ‘You’ll have to convince them that you didn’t hand me a lot of silly lies, of course – and, come to think of it, you might just as well convince me of that, and save us both a heap of unpleasantness. And if you’d stop thinking you’ll be pinched for murder if you admit you knew Mr SeatonCarew was telephoning in this room, we’d get on much faster. There isn’t any question but that Mrs Haddington and Miss Birtley both knew it, but I can’t arrest the three of you, nor I don’t want to!’
‘O God!’ Sydney ejaculated, and, to the patent horror of Inspector Grant, dropped his head in his hands, and broke into sobs.
‘Och, what a truaghan!’ muttered Grant. ‘Ist, Ist, nach ist thu?’
‘Now, don’t you start to annoy me!’ his superior admonished him. ‘Come, now, sir, there’s no need for you to take on like that!’
‘I know you think I murdered him!’ Sydney said, in a choked voice. ‘All right, think it! Arrest me! What do you think I care, now Dan’s dead? Oh, Dan, oh, Dan, I didn’t mean it!’
This extremely embarrassing scene caused the Inspector so much discomfort that he could only be glad to hear Hemingway recommending Mr Butterwick to go home, and to bed. He ushered him out of the room, and came back himself, mopping his brow. ‘Indeed, sir, I was glad to see you get rid of that one!’ he remarked. ‘Though I would not say Pershore was wrong when he thought it possible he was the man we are after. To my mind, he would be likely to weep the eyes out of his head if he had
killed his friend.’
‘Very likely. And to my mind it was a case of drink taken; and waste my time on maudlin drunks, without a bit of solid evidence to go on, I will not!’
‘He was not drunk precisely,’ said the Inspector, with native caution. ‘I should say, however, that he had had a dram this night.’
‘Half a dozen, more like. I’ll see Mrs Haddington next.’
Mrs Haddington walked calmly into the room five minutes later. She looked quite as well-groomed and as well made-up as when she had stood within the drawing-room to receive her guests, many hours earlier; but she had removed her diamonds, and her gloves. She inclined her head in a stately fashion to Hemingway, and disposed herself in a chair beside the fireplace. ‘What is it that you wish to ask me – er – Chief Inspector, I believe?’
‘I want first to ask you, madam, where you were when the telephone rang this evening. In fact, I should like you to tell me just what your recollection is of what happened then, and up till the moment that Sir Roderick Vickerstown found Mr Seaton-Carew dead in this room.’
She replied without hesitation: ‘When the telephone rang, I was standing just inside the front drawing-room. I went out on to the landing, meaning to tell whoever answered the call that I could not speak on the telephone at that moment.’
‘You thought the call was for you?’
‘I did think so,’ she admitted. ‘That, however, was forgetfulness: I knew that Mr Seaton-Carew expected to be rung up, for he had mentioned it to me at dinner. I was not best pleased, though it seems heartless to say that now. Telephone conversations in the middle of a Bridge-evening hold up the game, and are extremely annoying for everyone else. Miss Birtley answered the call, and I told her to fetch Mr SeatonCarew up from the library, where he was playing, to do his talking where he would not be disturbed – and where he would not disturb others. I can’t tell you when he came up to this room, because by that time I had myself gone upstairs to my bedroom. Nor can I tell you how long I was absent from the drawing-room: not, I think, many minutes. When I came down again, there was no one either on the landing, or on the staircase, and the door into this room was shut. I assumed that Mr Seaton-Carew was still telephoning, and went back into the drawing-room. There was a slight dispute going on at one of the tables, which occupied my attention. I recall that I was very much displeased with my secretary – Miss Birtley – for not keeping an eye on the smooth running of things while I was absent from the room, as I had asked her to do. She was not even in the room, but only entered it some minutes after I did. Then Dr Westruther came up from the library, to say that everyone was waiting for Mr SeatonCarew to return, and I asked Sir Roderick to come down to this room, and – well, put an end to all
this telephoning.’
‘I think you expressed surprise, didn’t you, madam, that Mr Seaton-Carew should still be speaking on the ‘phone?’
‘Did I? Quite likely: I remember thinking that he had had ample time to have made two calls.’
‘Can you form any estimate of the time that had elapsed between your going up to your room, and Sir Roderick’s
coming here to look for Mr Seaton-Carew?’
‘Really, I would rather not commit myself,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t paying any particular heed to the time, you see. It might have been ten minutes – I think not less – or it might have been longer. I have no idea.’
‘I see. And did anyone, other than yourself and Miss Birtley, know of this call?”
‘Everyone who dined here knew that the call was expected. I assume that those people who were in the library must all have known that he was fetched to answer the telephone. Mr Butterwick also knew: he was standing at my elbow when I told Miss Birtley to fetch Mr Seaton-Carew.’
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