Crooked House

Leonides is the most likely person to profit

  by it?"

  "Yes. If there's been any hocus pocus, it

  seems probable that she's at the bottom of

  it. And there obviously has been hocus

  pocus, but I'm dashed if I see how it was

  done."

  I didn't see, either. I suppose we were

  really incredibly stupid. But we were looking

  at it, of course, from the wrong angle.

  Twelve

  There was a short silence after Taverner

  had gone out.

  Then I said:

  "Dad, what are murderers like?"

  The Old Man looked up at me thoughtfully.

  We understand each other so well

  that he knew exactly what was in my mind

  when I put that question. And he answered

  it very seriously.

  "Yes," he said. 'That's important now

  -- very important, for you. . . . Murder's

  come close to you. You can't go on looking

  at it from the outside."

  I had always been interested, in an

  amateurish kind of way, in some of the

  more spectacular "cases" with which the

  CID had dealt, but, as my father said, I

  had been interested from the outside --

  looking in, as it were, through the shop

  window. But now, as Sophia had seen much [more quickly than I did, murder had

  become a dominant factor in my life.

  The Old Man went on:

  "I don't know if I'm the right person to

  ask. I could put you on to a couple of the

  tame psychiatrists who do jobs for us.

  They've got it all cut and dried. Or Taverner

  could give you all the inside dope. But you

  want, I take it, to hear what I, personally,

  as the result of my experience of criminals,

  think about it?"

  "That's what I want," I said gratefully.

  My father traced a little circle with his

  finger on the desk top.

  "What are murderers like? Some of

  them," a faint rather melancholy smile

  showed on his face, "have been thoroughly

  nice chaps."

  I think I looked a little startled.

  "Oh yes, they have," he said. "Nice

  ordinary fellows like you and me ? or like

  that chap who went out just now ? Roger

  Leonides. Murder, you see, is an amateur

  crime. I'm speaking of course of the kind

  of murder you have in mind ? not gangster

  stuff. One feels, very often, as though these

  nice ordinary chaps, had been overtaken,

  as it were, by murder, almost accidentally.

  They've been in a tight place, or they've

  wanted somethine very badly, money or a j

  woman -- and they've killed to get it. The

  brake that operates with most of us doesn't

  operate with them. A child, you know, translates desire into action without compunction.

  A child is angry with its kitten,

  says 'I'll kill you,' and hits it on the head

  with a hammer -- and then breaks its heart

  because the kitten doesn't come alive again!

  Lots of kids try to take a baby out of a

  pram and 'drown it,' because it usurps

  attention -- or interferes with their pleasures.

  They get -- very early -- to a stage

  when they know that that is 'wrong' -- that

  is, that it will be punished. Later, they get

  to feel that it is wrong. But some people, I

  suspect, remain morally immature. They

  continue to be aware that murder is wrong, but they do not feel it. I don't think, in

  my experience, that any murderer has really

  felt remorse. . . . And that, perhaps, is

  the mark of Cain. Murderers are set apart, they are 'different' -- murder is wrong --

  but not for them -- for them it is necessary -- the victim has 'asked for it,' it was 'the

  only way.' "

  "Do you think," I asked, "that if someone

  hated old Leonides, had hated him, say, for a very long time, that that would be a

  reason?"

  "Pure hate? Very unlikely, I should say."

  My father looked at me curiously. "When

  you say hate, I presume you mean dislike

  carried to excess. A jealous hate is different

  -- that rises out of affection and frustration.

  Constance Kent, everybody said, was very

  fond of the baby brother she killed. But

  she wanted, one supposes, the attention and

  the love that was bestowed on him. I think

  people more often kill those they love, than

  those they hate. Possibly because only the

  people you love can really make life

  unendurable to you.

  "But all this doesn't help you much, does

  it?" he went on. "What you want, if I read

  you correctly, is some token, some universal

  sign that will help you to pick out a

  murderer from a household of apparently

  normal and pleasant people?"

  "Yes, that's it."

  "Is there a common denominator? I

  wonder. You know," he paused in thought, "if there is, I should be inclined to say it

  is vanity."

  "Vanity?"

  "Yes, I've never met a murderer who

  wasn't vain. . . .It's their vanity that leads

  to their undoing, nine times out of ten. They mav be frightened of being caught,

  but they can't help strutting and boasting

  and usually they're sure they've been far

  too clever to be caught." He added: "And

  here's another thing, a murderer wants to

  talk."

  "To talk?"

  "Yes, you see, having committed a

  murder puts you in a position of great

  loneliness. You'd like to tell somebody all

  about it ? and you never can. And that

  makes you want to all the more. And so ?

  if you can't talk about how you did it, you

  can at least talk about the murder itself ?

  discuss it, advance theories ? go over it.

  "If I were you, Charles, I should look

  out for that. Go down there again, mix with

  them all, get them to talk. Of course it

  won't be plain sailing. Guilty or innocent,

  they'll be glad of the chance to talk to a

  stranger, because they can say things to you

  that they couldn't say to each other. But

  it's possible, I think, that you might spot a

  difference. A person who has something to

  hide can't really afford to talk at all. The

  blokes knew that in Intelligence during the

  war. If you were captured, your name, rank

  and unit but nothing more. People who

  attempt to give false information nearly

  always slip up. Get that household talking,

  Charles, and watch out for a slip or for

  some flash of self revelation."

  I told him then about what Sophia had

  said about the ruthlessness in the family --

  the different kinds of ruthlessness. He was

  interested.

  "Yes," he said. "Your young woman has

  got something there. Most families have got

  a defect, a chink in the armour. Most

  people can deal with one weakness -- but

  they mightn't be able to deal with two

  weaknesses of a different kind. Interesting

  thing, heredit
y. Take the de Haviland ruthlessness, and what we might call the

  Leonides's unscrupulousness -- the de

  Havilands are all right because they're not

  unscrupulous, and the Leonides are all right

  because, though unscrupulous, they are

  kindly -- but get a descendant who inherited

  both of those traits -- see what I mean?"

  I had not thought of it quite in those

  terms. My father said:

  "But I shouldn't worry your head about

  heredity. It's much too tricky and complicated

  a subject. No, my boy, go down there

  and let them talk to you. Your Sophia is

  quite right about one thing. Nothing but

  the truth is going to be any good to her or

  to you. You've got to know."

  He added as I went out of the room:

  "And be careful of the child."

  "Josephine? You mean don't let on to

  her what I'm up to."

  "No 31 didn't mean that. I meant -- look

  after her. We don't want anything to happen

  to her."

  I stared at him.

  "Come, come, Charles. There's a cold

  blooded killer somewhere in that household.

  The child Josephine appears to know most

  of what goes on."

  "She certainly knew all about Roger --

  even if she did leap to the conclusion that

  he was a swindler. Her account of what she

  overheard seems to have been quite accurate."

  "Yes, yes. Child's evidence is always the

  best evidence there is. I'd rely on it every

  time. No good in court, of course. Children

  can't stand being asked direct questions.

  They mumble or else look idiotic and say they don't know. They're at their best when

  they're showing off. That's what the child was doing to you. Showing off. You'll get more out of her in the same way. Don't go asking her questions. Pretend you think ^e doesn't know anything. That'll fetch

  [her."

  He added:

  "But take care of her. She may know a

  little too much for somebody's safety."

  Thirteen

  I went down to the Crooked House (as I

  called it in my own mind) with a slightly

  guilty feeling. Though I had repeated to

  Taverner Josephine's confidences about

  Roger 5 I had said nothing about her

  statement that Brenda and Laurence Brown

  wrote love letters to each other.

  I excused myself by pretending that it

  was mere romancing, and that there was no

  reason to believe that it was true. But

  actually I had felt a strange reluctance to

  pile up additional evidence against Brenda

  Leonides. I had been affected by the pathos

  of her position in the house ? surrounded

  by a hostile family united solidly against

  her. If such letters existed doubtless

  Taverner and his myrmidons would find

  them. I disliked to be the means of bringing

  fresh suspicion on a woman in a difficult

  Position. Moreover, she had assured me

  ^lemnly that there was nothing of that

  kind between her and Laurence and I felt

  more inclined to believe her than to believe

  that malicious gnome Josephine. Had not

  Brenda said herself that Josephine was "Not

  all there."

  I stifled an uneasy certainty that Josephine

  was very much all there. I remembered the

  intelligence of her beady black eyes.

  I had rung up Sophia and asked if I

  might come down again. i "Please do, Charles."

  "How are things going?"

  "I don't know. All right. They keep on

  searching the house. What are they looking

  for?"

  "I've no idea."

  "We're all getting very nervy. Come as

  soon as you can. I shall go crazy if I can't

  talk to someone."

  I said I would come down straightaway.

  There was no one in sight as I drove up

  to the front door. I paid the taxi and it

  drove away. I felt uncertain whether to ring

  the bell or to walk in. The front door was

  open.

  As I stood there, hesitating, I heard a

  slight sound behind me. I turned my head

  sharply. Josephine, her face partially oh- smred by a very large apple, was standing

  in the opening of the yew hedge looking at

  me.

  As I turned my head 5 she turned away.

  "Hullo, Josephine."

  She did not answer, but disappeared

  behind the hedge. I crossed the drive and

  followed her. She was seated on the

  uncomfortable rustic bench by the goldfish

  pond swinging her legs to and fro and

  biting into her apple. Above its rosy

  circumference her eyes regarded me sombrely

  and with what I could not but feel

  was hostility.

  "I've come down again, Josephine," I

  said.

  It was a feeble opening, but I found

  Josephine's silence and her unblinking gaze, rather unnerving.

  With excellent strategic sense, she still

  did not reply.

  "Is that a good apple?" I asked.

  This time Josephine did condescend to

  reply. Her reply consisted of one word.

  "Woolly."

  "A pity," I said. "I don't like woolly

  apples."

  Josephine replied scornfully:

  "Nobody does."

  "Why wouldn't you speak to me when

  I said Hullo?"

  "I didn't want to."

  "Why not?"

  Josephine removed the apple from her

  face to assist in the clearness of her

  denunciation. .

  "You went and sneaked to the police,"

  she said.

  "Oh," I was rather taken aback. "You

  mean -- about --"

  "About Uncle Roger."

  "But it's all right, Josephine," I assured

  her. "Quite all right. They know he didn't

  do anything wrong -- I mean, he hadn't

  embezzled any money or anything of that

  kind."

  Josephine threw me an exasperated glance.

  "How stupid you are."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I wasn't worrying about Uncle Roger.

  It's simply that that's not the way to do

  detective work. Don't you know that you

  never tell the police until the very end?" ft "Oh I see," I said. "I'm sorry, Josephine.

  I'm really very sorry."

  "So you should be." She added reproachfully,

  "I trusted you."

  I said I was sorry for the third time.

  loseohine appeared a little mollified. She

  took another couple of bites of apple.

  "But the police would have been bound

  to find out about all this," I said. "You --

  I -- we couldn't have kept it a secret."

  "You mean because he's going bankrupt?"

  As usual Josephine was well informed.

  "I suppose it will come to that."

  "They're going to talk about it tonight,"

  said Josephine. "Father and Mother and

  Uncle Roger and Aunt Edith. Aunt Edith

  would give him her money -- only she

  hasn't got it yet -- but I don't think father

  will. He says if Roger has got in a jam he's

  only got himself to blame and wh
at's the

  good of throwing good money after bad, and mother won't hear of giving him any

  because she wants father to put up the

  money for Edith Thompson. Do you know

  Edith Thompson? She was married, but

  she didn't like her husband. She was in

  love with a young man called Bywaters who

  came off a ship and he went down a different

  street after the theatre and stabbed him in

  the back."

  I marvelled once more at the range and

  completeness of Josephine's knowledge; and also at the dramatic sense which, only [slightly obscured by hazy pronouns, had

  presented all the salient facts in a nutshell.

  "It sounds all right," said Josephine,

  "but I don't suppose the play will be like

  that at all. It will be like Jezebel again."

  She sighed. "I wish I knew why the dogs

  wouldn't eat the palms of her hands."

  "Josephine," I said. "You told me that

  you were almost sure who the murderer

  was?" . .- |

  "Well?" U "

  "Who is it?"

  She gave me a look of scorn.

  "I see," I said. "Not till the last chapter?

  Not even if I promise not to tell Inspector

  Taverner?"

  "I want just a few more clues," said

  Josephine.

  "Anyway," she added, throwing the core

  of the apple into the goldfish pool, "I

  wouldn't tell you. If you're anyone, you're

  Watson."

  I stomached this insult.

  "O.K." I said. "I'm Watson. But even

  Watson was given the data."

  "The what?"

  "The facts. And then he made the wrong

  deductions from them. Wouldn't it be a lot

  of fun for you to see me making the wrong

  deductions?"

  A

  ? B;

  For a moment Josephine was tempted.

  Then she shook her head.

  "No," she said, and added: "Anyway? I'm not very keen on Sherlock Holmes. It^s

  awfully old fashioned. They drive about in

  dog carts."

  "What about those letters?" I asked.

  "What letters?"

  The letters you said Laurence Brown and

  Brenda wrote to each other."

  "I made that up," said Josephine.

  "I don't believe you."

  "Yes, I did. I often make things up. It

  amuses me."

  I stared at her. She stared back.

  "Look here, Josephine. I know a man sit

  the British Museum who knows a lot aboixt

  the Bible. If I find out from him why th^ dogs didn't eat the palms of Jezebel's hands? will you tell me about those letters?"

  This time Josephine really hesitated.

  Somewhere, not very far away, a twi^ snapped with a sharp cracking noise. Jose^phine

  said flatly:

  "No, I won't."

  I accepted defeat. Rather late in the day^ I remembered my father's advice.

  "Oh well," I said, "it's only a game. Qt

  ^urse you don't really know anything."

  Josephine's eyes snapped, but she resisted

  the bait. ^

  I got up. "I must go in now," I said, "and find Sophia. Come along."

  "I shall stop here," said Josephine.

  "No, you won't," I said. "You're coming

  in with me."

  Unceremoniously I yanked her to her

  feet. She seemed surprised and inclined to

  protest, but yielded with a fairly good grace

  -- partly, no doubt, because she wished to

  observe the reactions of the household to

  my presence.

  Why I was so anxious for her to accompany

  me I could not at the moment have

  said. It only came to me as we were passing

  through the front door.

  It was because of the sudden snapping of

  a twig.

  Fourteen

  There was a murmur of voices from the big

  drawing room. I hesitated but did not go

  in. I wandered on down the passage and

  led by some impulse, I pushed open a baize

  door. The passage beyond was dark but

  suddenly a door opened showing a big

  lighted kitchen. In the doorway stood an

  old woman -- a rather bulky old woman.

  She had a very clean white apron tied round

  her ample waist and the moment I saw her

  I knew that everything was all right. It is

  the feeling that a good Nannie can always

  give you. I am thirty-five, but I felt just

  like a reassured little boy of four.

  As far as I knew, Nannie had never seen me , but she said at once:

  "It's Mr. Charles, isn't it? Come into the

  kitchen and let me give you a cup of tea."

  It was a big happy feeling kitchen. I sat

  down by the centre table and Nannie brought me a cup of tea and two sweet

  biscuits on a plate. I felt more than ever

  that I was in the nursery again. Everything

  was all right ? and the terrors of the dark

  room and the unknown were no more with

  me.

  "Miss Sophia will be glad you've come,"

  said Nannie. "She's been getting rather

  overexcited." She added disapprovingly:

  "They're all overexcited."

  I looked over my shoulder.

  "Where's Josephine? She came in with

  me."

  Nannie made a disapproving clacking

  noise with her tongue.

  "Listening at doors and writing down

  things in that silly little book she carries

  about with her," she said. "She ought to

  have gone to school and had children of her

  own age to play with. I've said so to Miss

  Edith and she agrees ? but the master

  would have it that she was best here in her

  home."

  "I suppose he's very fond of her," I said.

  r "He was, sir. He was fond of them all."

  I looked slightly astonished, wondering