Crooked House

why Philip's affection for his offspring was

  put so definitely in the past. Nannie saw

  my expression and flushing slightly, she

  ccnrl ?

  "When I said the master, it was old Mr.

  Leonides I meant."

  Before I could respond to that, the door

  opened with a rush and Sophia came in.

  "Oh Charles," she said, and then quickly:

  "Oh Nannie, I'm so glad he's come."

  "I know you are, love."

  Nannie gathered up a lot of pots and

  pans and went off into a scullery with them.

  She shut the door behind her.

  I got up from the table and went over to

  Sophia. I put my arms round her and held

  her to me.

  "Dearest," I said. "You're trembling.

  What is it?"

  Sophia said:

  "I'm frightened, Charles. I'm frightened."

  "I love you," I said. "If I could take you

  away --"

  She drew apart and shook her head.

  "No, that's impossible. We've got to see

  this through. But you know, Charles, I

  don't like it. I don't like the feeling that

  someone -- someone in this house --

  someone I see and speak to every day is a

  cold blooded calculating poisoner . . ."

  And I didn't know how to answer that.

  To someone like Sophia one can give no

  easy meaningless reassurances.

  She said: "If only one knew ?"

  "That must be the worst of it," I agreed.

  "You know what really frightens me?"

  she whispered. "It's that we may never

  know. ..."

  I could visualise easily what a nightmare

  that would be. ... And it seemed to me

  highly probable that it never might be

  known who had killed old Leonides.

  But it also reminded me of a question I

  had meant to put to Sophia on a point that

  had interested me.

  "Tell me, Sophia," I said. "How many

  people in this house knew about the eserine

  eyedrops ? I mean (a) that your grandfather

  had them, and (b) that they were poisonous

  and what would be a fatal dose?"

  "I see what you're getting at, Charles.

  But it won't work. You see, we all knew."

  "Well, yes, vaguely, I suppose, but

  specifically ?"

  "We knew specifically. We were all up

  with grandfather one day for coffee after

  lunch. He liked all the family round him,

  you know. And his eyes had been giving

  him a lot of trouble. And Brenda got the

  eserine to put a drop in each eye and

  ToseDhine who always asks questions about

  everything, said 'Why does it say: "Eyedrops

  ?- not to be taken" on the bottle? What

  would happen if you drank all the bottle?5

  And grandfather smiled and said: 'IfBrenda

  were to make a mistake and inject eyedrops

  into me one day instead of insulin ? I

  suspect I should give a big gasp 5 and go

  rather blue in the face and then die, because,

  you see, my heart isn't very strong.' And

  Josephine said: 'Oo,' and grandfather went

  on 'So we must be careful that Brenda does

  not give me an injection of eserine instead

  of insulin, mustn't we?5 " Sophia paused

  and then said: "We were all there listening.

  You see? We all heard!"

  I did see. I had had some faint idea in

  my mind that just a little specialized

  knowledge would have been needed. But

  now it was borne in upon me that old

  Leonides had actually supplied the blue

  print for his own murder. The murderer

  had not had to think out a scheme, or to

  plan or devise anything. A simple easy

  method of causing death had been supplied

  by the victim himself.

  I drew a deep breath. Sophia, catching

  my thought, said: "Yes, it's rather horrible,

  isn't it?"

  "You know, Sophia," I said slowly.

  "There's just one thing does strike me."

  "Yes?" "That

  you're right, and that it couldn't

  have been Brenda. She couldn't do it exactly

  that way -- when you'd all listened -- when

  you'd all remember."

  "I don't know about that. She is rather

  dumb in some ways, you know."

  "Not as dumb as all that," I said. "No,

  it couldn't have been Brenda."

  Sophia moved away from me.

  "You don't want it to be Brenda, do

  you?" she asked.

  And what could I say? I couldn't -- no, I couldn't -- say flatly: "Yes, I hope it is

  Brenda."

  Why couldn't I? Just the feeling that

  Brenda was all alone on one side, and the

  concentrated animosity of the powerful

  Leonides family was arrayed against her on

  the other side? Chivalry? A feeling for the

  weaker? For the defenceless? I remembered

  her sitting on the sofa in her expensive rich

  mourning, the hopelessness in her voice --

  the fear in her eyes.

  Nannie came back rather opportunely

  from the scullery. I don't know whether

  she sensed a certain strain between myself

  and Sophia.

  She said disapprovingly:

  "Talking murders and such like. Forget

  about it, that's what I say. Leave it to the

  police. It's their nasty business, not yours."

  "Oh Nannie ? don't you realize that

  someone in this house is a murderer."

  "Nonsense, Miss Sophia, I've no patience

  with you. Isn't the front door open all the

  time ? all the doors open, nothing locked

  ? asking for thieves and burglars."

  "But it couldn't have been a burglar,

  nothing was stolen. Besides why should a

  burglar come in and poison somebody?"

  "I didn't say it was a burglar. Miss

  Sophia. I only said all the doors were open.

  Anyone could have got in. If you ask me it

  was the Communists."

  Nannie nodded her head in a satisfied

  way.

  "Why on earth should Communists want

  to murder poor grandfather?"

  "Well, everyone says that they're at the

  bottom of everything that goes on. But if it

  wasn't the Communists, mark my word, it

  was the Catholics. The Scarlet Woman of

  Babylon, that's what they are."

  With the air of one saying the last word,

  Nannie disappeared again into the scullery.

  Sophia and I laughed.

  "A good old Black Protestant," I said.

  "Yes, isn't she? Come on, Charles, come

  into the drawing room. There's a kind of

  family conclave going on. It was scheduled

  for this evening -- but it's started prematurely."

  "I'd better not butt in, Sophia."

  "If you're ever going to marry into the

  family, you'd better see just what it's like

  when it has the gloves off."

  "What's it all about?"

  "Roger's affairs. You seem to have been

  mixed up in them already. But you're crazy

  to think that Roger would ever have killed

  grandfather. Why, Roger adored him."

  "I didn't really
think Roger had. I thought

  Clemency might have."

  "Only because I put it into your head.

  But you're wrong there too. I don't think

  Clemency will mind a bit if Roger loses all

  his money. I think she'll actually be rather

  pleased. She's got a queer kind of passion

  for not having things. Come on."

  When Sophia and I entered the drawing

  room, the voices that were speaking stopped

  abruptly. Everybody looked at us.

  They were all there. Philip sitting in a

  big crimson brocaded armchair between the

  --;_^^,,^ ^y hpantifnl face set in a cold

  stern mask. He looked like a judge about

  to pronounce sentence. Roger was astride a

  big pouf by the fireplace. He had ruffled

  up his hair between his fingers until it stood

  up all over his head. His left trouser leg

  was rucked up and his tie was askew. He

  looked flushed and argumentative. Clemency

  sat beyond him, her slight form seemed

  too slender for the big stuffed chair. She

  was looking away from the others and

  seemed to be studying the wall panels with

  a dispassionate gaze. Edith sat in a grandfather

  chair, bolt upright. She was knitting

  with incredible energy, her lips pressed

  tightly together. The most beautiful thing

  in the room to look at was Magda and

  Eustace. They looked like a portrait by

  Gainsborough. They sat together on the

  sofa -- the dark handsome boy with a

  sullen expression on his face, and beside

  him, one arm thrust out along the back of

  the sofa, sat Magda, the Duchess of Three

  Gables in a picture gown of taffeta with one

  small foot in a brocaded slipper thrust out

  in front of her.

  Philip frowned. V

  "Sophia," he said, "I'm sorry, but we

  are discussing family matters which are of

  a private nature."

  Miss de Haviland's needles clicked. I

  prepared to apologise and retreat. Sophia

  forestalled me. Her voice was clear and

  determined.

  "Charles and I," she said, "hope to get

  married. I want Charles to be here.55

  "And why on earth not?55 cried Roger, springing up from his pouf with explosive

  energy. "I keep telling you, Philip, there5 s

  nothing private about this! The whole world

  is going to know tomorrow or the day after.

  Anyway, my dear boy,55 he came and put a

  friendly hand on my shoulder, "you know

  all about it. You were there this morning.5'

  "Do tell me,55 cried Magda, leaning

  forward. "What is it like at Scotland Yard.

  One always wonders. A table. A desk?

  Chairs? What kind of curtains? No flowers, I suppose? A dictaphone?55

  "Put a sock in it, mother,55 said Sophia.

  "And anyway, you told Vavasour Jones to

  cut that Scotland Yard scene. You said it

  was an anticlimax.55

  "It makes it too like a detective play," said Magda. "Edith Thompson is definitely

  a psychological drama -- or psychological

  thriller -- which do you think sounds best?55

  ??

  "You were there this morning?55 Philip

  asked me sharply. "Why? Oh, of course --your father ?"

  He frowned. I realised more clearly than

  ever that my presence was unwelcome, but

  Sophia's hand was clenched on my arm.

  Clemency moved a chair forward.

  "Do sit down," she said.

  I gave her a grateful glance and accepted.

  "You may say what you like," said Miss

  de Haviland apparently going on from

  where they had all left off, "but I do think

  we ought to respect Aristide's wishes. When

  this will business is straightened out, as far

  as I am concerned, my legacy is entirely at

  your disposal, Roger."

  Roger tugged his hair in a frenzy.

  "No, Aunt Edith. No!" he cried.

  "I wish I could say the same," said

  Philip, "but one has to take every factor

  into consideration ?"

  "Dear old Phil, don't you understand?

  I'm not going to take a penny from anyone."

  "Of course he can't!" snapped Clemency.

  "Anyway, Edith," said Magda. "If the

  will is straightened out, he'll have his own

  legacy."

  "But it can't possibly be straightened out

  in time, can it?" asked Eustace.

  "You don't know anything about it,

  Eustace," said Philip.

  "The boy's absolutely right," cried Roger. "He's put his finger on the spot. Nothing

  can avert the crash. Nothing."

  He spoke with a kind of relish.

  "There is really nothing to discuss," said

  Clemency.

  "Anyway," said Roger, "what does it

  matter?" "I

  should have thought it mattered a

  good deal," said Philip, pressing his lips

  together.

  "No," said Roger. "No! Does anything

  matter compared with the fact that father

  is dead? Father is dead! And we sit here

  discussing mere money matters!"

  A faint colour rose in Philip's pale cheeks.

  "We are only trying to help," he said

  stiffly.

  "I know, Phil, old boy, I know. But

  there's nothing anyone can do. So let's call

  it a day."

  "I suppose," said Philip, "that I could

  raise a certain amount of money. Securities

  have gone down a good deal and some of

  my capital is tied up in such a way that I

  can't touch it: Magda's settlement and so

  on -- but --"

  Magda said quickly:

  af^f /^,,,,o^ ,7rm pan't raise the money?

  darling. It would be absurd to try ? and

  not very fair on the children."

  "I tell you I'm not asking anyone for

  anything!" shouted Roger. "I'm hoarse with

  telling you so. I'm quite content that things

  should take their course."

  "It's a question of prestige," said Philip.

  "Father's. Ours."

  "It wasn't a family business. It was solely

  my concern."

  "Yes," said Philip, looking at him. "It

  was entirely your concern."

  Edith de Haviland got up and said: "I

  think we've discussed this enough."

  There was in her voice that authentic

  note of authority that never fails to produce

  its effect.

  Philip and Magda got up. Eustace lounged

  out of the room and I noticed the stiffness

  of his gait. He was not exactly lame but his

  walk was a halting one.

  Roger linked his arm in Philip's and said:

  "You've been a brick, Phil, even to think

  of such a thing!" The brothers went out

  together.

  Magda murmured, "Such a fuss!" as she

  followed them, and Sophia said that she

  ^ust see about my room.

  Edith de Haviland stood rolling up her

  knitting. She looked towards me and I

  thought she was going to speak to me.

  There was something almost like appeal in

  her glance. However, she changed her

  mind, si
ghed and went out after the others.

  Clemency had moved over to the window

  and stood looking out into the garden. I

  went over and stood beside her. She turned

  her head slightly towards me.

  "Thank goodness that's over," she said

  ? and added with distaste: "What a

  preposterous room this isl"

  "Don't you like it?"

  "I can't breathe in it. There's always a

  smell of half dead flowers and dust."

  I thought she was unjust to the room.

  But I knew what she meant. It was very

  definitely an interior.

  It was a woman's room, exotic, soft, shut

  away from the rude blasts of outside

  weather. It was not a room that a man

  would be happy in for long. It was not a

  room where you could relax and read the

  newspaper and smoke a pipe and put up

  your feet. Nevertheless I preferred it to

  Clemency's own abstract expression of

  herself upstairs. On the whole I prefer a

  boudoir to an operating theatre.

  "It's just a stage set. A background for

  Magda to play her scenes against." She

  looked at me. "You realise, don't you, what

  we've just been doing? Act II ? the family

  conclave. Magda arranged it. It didn't mean

  a thing. There was nothing to talk about,

  nothing to discuss. It's all settled ?

  finished."

  There was no sadness in her voice. Rather

  there was satisfaction. She caught my glance.

  "Oh, don't you understand?" she said

  impatiently. "We're free ? at last! Don't

  you understand that Roger's been miserable

  ? absolutely miserable ? for years? He

  never had any aptitude for business. He

  likes things like horses and cows and

  pottering round in the country. But he

  adored his father ? they all did. That's

  what's wrong with this house ? too much

  family. I don't mean that the old man was

  a tyrant, or preyed upon them, or bullied

  them. He didn't. He gave them money and

  freedom. He was devoted to them. And

  they kept on being devoted to him."

  "Is there anything wrong in that?"

  "I think there is. I think, when your

  children have grown up, that you should

  cut away from them, efface yourself, slink

  away, force them to forget you."

  "Force them? That's rather drastic, isn't

  it? Isn't coercion as bad one way as

  another?"

  "If he hadn't made himself such a

  personality --"

  "You can't make yourself a personality,"

  I said. "He was a personality."

  "He was too much of a personality for

  Roger. Roger worshipped him. He wanted

  to do everything his father wanted him to

  do, he wanted to be the kind of son his

  father wanted. And he couldn't. His father

  made over Associated Catering to him -- it

  was the old man's particular joy and pride, and Roger tried hard to carry on in his

  father's footsteps. But he hadn't got that

  kind of ability. In business matters Roger

  is -- yes, I'll say it plainly -- a fool. And

  it nearly broke his heart. He's been miserable

  for years, struggling, seeing the whole

  thing go down the hill, having sudden

  wonderful 'ideas' and 'schemes' which

  always went wrong and made it worse than

  ever. It's a terrible thing to feel you're a

  failure year after year. You don't know how

  unhappy he's been. I do." , I

  Again she turned and faced me. )

  "You thought, you actually suggested to ihp nnlice. that Roger would have killed his jh

  father ? for money! You don't know how

  .? how absolutely ridiculous that is!"

  "I do know it now," I said humbly.

  "When Roger knew he couldn't stave it

  off any more ? that the crash was bound

  to come, he was actually relieved. Yes, he

  was. He worried about his father's knowing

  ? but not about anything else. He was

  looking forward to the new life we were

  going to live."

  Her face quivered a little and her voice

  softened.

  "Where were you going?" I asked.

  "To Barbados. A distant cousin of mine

  died a short time ago and left me a tiny

  estate out there ? oh, nothing much. But

  it was somewhere to go. We'd have been

  desperately poor, but we'd have scratched

  a living ? it costs very little just to live.

  We'd have been together ? unworried,

  away from them all."

  She sighed.

  "Roger is a ridiculous person. He would

  worry about me ? about my being poor. I

  suppose he's got the Leonides attitude to

  money too firmly in his mind. When my

  first husband was alive, we were terribly

  poor ? and Roger thinks it was so brave

  and wonderful of me! He doesn't realise

  that I was happy ? really happy! I've never

  been so happy since. And yet ? I never

  loved Richard as I love Roger."

  Her eyes half-closed. I was aware of the

  intensity of her feeling.

  She opened her eyes, looked at me and

  said:

  "So you see, I would never have killed

  anyone for money. I don't like money."

  I was quite sure that she meant exactly

  what she said. Clemency Leonides was one

  of those rare people to whom money does

  not appeal. They dislike luxury, prefer

  austerity, and are suspicious of possessions.

  Still, there are many to whom money has

  no personal appeal, but who can be tempted

  by the power it confers.

  I said, "You mightn't want money for

  yourself ? but wisely directed, money may

  do a lot of interesting things. It can endow