Crooked House

much money as he would like to have. But

  there might have been some deep psychological

  reason for his desiring his father's

  death. Philip had come back to his father's

  house to live, and later, as a result of the Blitz Roger had come -- and Philip had

  been obliged to see day by day that Roger ^as his father's favourite. . . . Might [things have come to such a pass in his

  tortured mind that the only relief possible

  was his father's death? And supposing that

  that death should incriminate his elder

  brother? Roger was short of money -- on

  the verge of a crash. Knowing nothing of

  that last interview between Roger and his

  father and the latter's offer of assistance, might not Philip have believed that the

  motive would seem so powerful that Roger

  would be at once suspected? Was Philip's

  mental balance sufficiently disturbed to lead

  him to do murder?

  I cut my chin with the razor and swore.

  What the hell was I trying to do? Fasten

  murder on Sophia's father? That was a nice

  thing to try and do! That wasn't what

  Sophia had wanted me to come down here

  for.

  Or -- was it? There was something, had

  been something all along, behind Sophia's

  appeal. If there was any lingering suspicion

  in her mind that her father was the killer,

  then she would never consent to marry me

  -- in case that suspicion might be true.

  And since she was Sophia, clear-eyed and

  brave, she wanted the truth, since uncertainty

  would be an eternal and perpetual

  barrier between us. Hadn't she been in

  effect saying to me, "Prove that this dreadful thing I am imagining is not true ?

  but if it is true, then prove its truth to me

  ? so that I can know the worst and face

  it!"

  Did Edith de Haviland know, or suspect,

  that Philip was guilty. What had she meant

  by "this side idolatry"?

  And what had Clemency meant by that

  peculiar look she had thrown at me when I

  asked her who she suspected and she had

  answered: "Laurence and Brenda are the

  obvious suspects, aren't they?"

  The whole family wanted it to be Brenda

  and Laurence, hoped it might be Brenda

  and Laurence, but didn't really believe it

  was Brenda and Laurence. ...

  And of course, the whole family might

  be wrong, and it might really be Laurence

  and Brenda after all.

  Or, it might be Laurence, and not

  Brenda. . . .

  That would be a much better solution.

  I finished dabbing at my cut chin and

  went down to breakfast filled with the

  determination to have an interview with

  Laurence Brown as soon as possible.

  It was only as I drank my second cup of

  coffee that it occurred to me that the

  Crooked House was having its effect on me

  also. I, too, wanted to find, not the true

  solution, but the solution that suited me

  best.

  After breakfast I went out through the

  hall and up the stairs. Sophia had told

  me that I should find Laurence giving instruction

  to Eustace and Josephine in the

  schoolroom.

  I hesitated on the landing outside Brenda's

  front door. Did I ring and knock, or did I

  walk right in? I decided to treat the house

  as an integral Leonides home and not as

  Brenda's private residence.

  I opened the door and passed inside.

  Everything was quiet, there seemed to be

  no one about. On my left the door into the

  big drawing room was closed. On my right

  two open doors showed a bedroom and

  adjoining bathroom. This I knew was the

  bathroom adjoining Aristide Leonides5 s

  bedroom where the eserine and the insulin

  had been kept. The police had finished with

  it now. I pushed the door open and slipped

  inside. I realised then how easy it would

  have been for anyone in the house (or from

  outside the house for the matter of that!)

  to come up here and into the bathroom

  unseen.

  T stood in the bathroom looking round.

  It was sumptuously appointed with gleaming

  tiles and a sunk bath. At one side were

  various electric appliances; a hot plate and

  grill under, an electric kettle ? a small

  electric saucepan, a toaster ? everything

  that a valet attendant to an old gentleman

  might need. On the wall was a white

  enamelled cupboard. I opened it. Inside

  were medical appliances, two medicine

  glasses, eyebath, eye dropper and a few

  labelled bottles. Aspirin, Boracic powder,

  iodine. Elastoplast bandages, etc. On a

  separate shelf were the stacked supply of

  insulin, two hypodermic needles, and a

  bottle of surgical spirit. On a third shelf

  was a bottle marked The Tablets ? one or

  two to be taken at night as ordered. On

  this shelf, no doubt, had stood the bottle

  of eyedrops. It was all clear, well arranged,

  easy for anyone to get at if needed, and

  equally easy to get at for murder.

  I could do what I liked with the bottles

  and then go softly out and downstairs again

  and nobody would ever know I had been

  there. All this was, of course, nothing new,

  but it brought home to me how difficult

  the task of the police was.

  Only from the guilty party or parties

  could one find out what one needed.

  ?(1

  'Rattle 'em," Taverner had said to me.

  "Get 'em on the run. Make 'em think we're

  on. to something. Keep ourselves well in

  th
  criminal will stop leaving well alone and try

  to be smarter still ? and then ? we've got

  hLm."

  Well, the criminal hadn't reacted to this

  treatment so far.

  I came out of the bathroom. Still no one

  about. I went on along the corridor. I

  passed the dining room on the left, and

  Brenda's bedroom and bathroom on the

  right. In the latter, one of the maids was

  moving about. The dining room door was

  closed. From a room beyond that, I heard

  Edith de Haviland's voice telephoning to

  tlie inevitable fishmonger. A spiral flight of

  s-tairs led to the floor above. I went up

  them. Edith's bedroom and sitting room

  was here, I knew, and two more bathrooms

  and Laurence Brown's room. Beyond that

  again the short flight of steps down to the

  big room built out over the servant's

  (quarters at the back which was used as a

  schoolroom.

  Outside the door I paused. Laurence

  3rown's voice could be heard, slightly

  rnKipd. from inside.

  I think Josephine's habit of snooping must

  have been catching. Quite unashamedly

  I leaned against the door jamb and listened.

  It was a history lesson that was in

  prog
ress, and the period in question was

  the French directoire.

  As I listened astonishment opened my

  eyes. It was a considerable surprise to me

  to discover that Laurence Brown was a

  magnificent teacher.

  I don't know why it should have surprised

  me so much. After all 5 Aristide Leonides

  had always been a good picker of men. For

  all his mouselike exterior, Laurence had

  that supreme gift of being able to arouse

  enthusiasm and imagination in his pupils.

  The drama of Thermidor, the decree of

  Outlawry against the Robespierrists, the

  magnificence of Barras, the cunning of

  Fouche ? Napoleon, the half starved young

  gunner lieutenant ? all these were real and

  living.

  Suddenly Laurence stopped, he asked

  Eustace and Josephine a question, he made

  them put themselves in the places of first

  one and then another figure in the drama.

  Though he did not get much result from

  Josephine whose voice sounded as though

  she had a cold in the head, Eustace sounded

  quite different from his usual moody self.

  He showed brains and intelligence and the

  keen historical sense which he had doubtless

  inherited from his father.

  Then I heard the chairs being pushed

  back and scraped across the floor. I retreated

  up the steps and was apparently just coming

  down them when the door opened.

  Eustace and Josephine came out.

  "Hullo," I said.

  Eustace looked surprised to see me.

  "Do you want anything?" he asked

  politely.

  Josephine, taking no interest in my presence, slipped past me.

  "I just wanted to see the schoolroom," I

  said rather feebly.

  "You saw it the other day, didn't you?

  It's just a kid's place really. Used to be the

  nursery. It's still got a lot of toys in it."

  He held the door open for me and I went

  in.

  Laurence Brown stood by the table. He

  looked up, flushed, murmured something

  in answer to my good morning and went

  hurriedly out. m

  "You've scareS him," said Eustace. "He's

  very easily scared."

  "Do you like him, Eustace?"

  "Oh! he's all right. An awful ass, of

  course."

  "But not a bad teacher?"

  "No, as a matter of fact he's quite

  interesting. He knows an awful lot. He

  makes you see things from a different angle.

  I never knew that Henry the Eighth wrote

  poetry -- to Anne Boleyn, of course --

  jolly decent poetry."

  We talked for a few moments on such

  subjects as The Ancient Mariner, Chaucer, the political implications behind the Crusades, the Mediaeval approach to life, and

  the, to Eustace, surprising fact that Oliver

  Cromwell had prohibited the celebration of

  Christmas Day. Behind Eustace's scornful

  and rather ill-tempered manner there was, I perceived, an inquiring and able mind.

  Very soon I began to realise the source

  of his ill humour. His illness had not only

  been a frightening ordeal, it had also been

  a frustration and a setback, just at a moment

  when he had been enjoying life.

 
  term -- and I'd got my house colours. It's

  Pretty thick to have to stop at home and do

  lessons with a rotten kid like Josephine. Why, she's only twelve."

  "Yes, but you don't have the same

  studies 5 do you?"

  "No, of course she doesn't do advanced

  maths ? or Latin. But you don't want to

  have to share a tutor with a girl."

  I tried to soothe his injured male pride

  by remarking that Josephine was quite an

  intelligent girl for her age.

  "D'you think so? I think she's awfully

  wet. She's mad keen on this detecting stuff

  ? goes round poking her nose in everywhere

  and writing things down in a little black

  book and pretending that she's finding out

  a lot. Just a silly kid, that's all she is," said

  Eustace loftily.

  "Anyway," he added, "girls can't be

  detectives. I told her so. I think mother's

  quite right and the sooner Jo's packed off

  to Switzerland the better."

  "Wouldn't you miss her?"

  "Miss a kid of that age?" said Eustace

  haughtily. "Of course not. My goodness,

  this house is the absolute limit! Mother

  always haring up and down to London and

  bullying tame dramatists to rewrite plays

  for her, and making frightful fusses about

  nothing at all. And father shut up with his

  books and sometimes not hearing you if

  you speak to him. I don't see why I should

  -- ^ u/, Km./-i^,-?^ri with such oeculiar Jy

  parents. Then there's Uncle Roger ? always

  so hearty that it makes you shudder. Aunt

  Clemency's all right, she doesn't bother

  you, but I sometimes think she's a bit

  batty. Aunt Edith's not too bad, but she's

  old. Things have been a bit more cheerful

  since Sophia came back ? though she can

  be pretty sharp sometimes. But it is a queer

  household, don't you think so? Having a

  stepgrandmother young enough to be your

  aunt or your older sister. I mean, it makes

  you feel an awful ass!"

  I had some comprehension of his feelings.

  I remembered (very dimly) my own supersensitiveness

  at Eustace's age. My horror of

  appearing in any way unusual or of my near

  relatives departing from the normal.

  "What about your grandfather?" I said.

  "Were you fond of him?"

  A curious expression flitted across Eustace's

  face.

  "Grandfather," he said, "was definitely

  antisocial!"

  "In what way?"

  "He thought of nothing but the profit

  motive. Laurence says that's completely

  wrong. And he was a great individualist.

  All that sort of thing has got to go, don't

  I you think so?"

  "Well," I said rather brutally, "he has

  gone."

  "A good thing, really," said Eustace. "I

  don't want to be callous, but you can't

  really enjoy life at that age!"

  "Didn't he?"

  "He couldn't have. Anyway, it was time

  he went. He --" Eustace broke off as

  Laurence Brown came back into the schoolroom.

  Laurence began fussing about with some

  books, but I thought that he was watching

  me out of the corner of his eye.

  He looked at his wrist-watch and said:

  "Please be back here sharp at eleven, Eustace. We've wasted too much time the

  last few days."

  "O.K., sir."

  Eustace lounged towards the door and

  went out whistling.

  Laurence Brown darted another sharp

  glance at me. He moistened his lips once

  or twice. I was convinced that he had come

  back into the schoolroom solely in order to

  talk to me.

  Pr
esently, after a little aimless stacking

  and unstacking of books and a pretence of

  looking for a book that was missing, he

  "Er -- How are they getting on?" he

  said.

  "They?"

  "The police."

  His nose twitched. A mouse in a trap, I

  thought, a mouse in a trap.

  "They don't take me into their confidence,"

  I said.

  "Oh. I thought your father was the

  Assistant Commissioner."

  "He is," I said. "But naturally he would

  not betray official secrets."

  I made my voice purposely pompous.

  "Then you don't know how -- what --

  if . . ." His voice trailed off. "They're not

  going to make an arrest, are they?"

  "Not so far as I know. But then, as I

  say, I mightn't know."

  Get 'em on the run. Inspector Taverner

  had said. Get 'em rattled. Well, Laurence

  Brown was rattled all right.

  He began talking quickly and nervously.

  "You don't know what it's like. . . .

  The strain. . . . Not knowing what -- I mean, they just come and go -- Asking

  questions. . . . Questions that don't seem

  to have anything to do with the case. . . ."

  He broke off. I waited. He wanted to

  talk -- well, then, let him talk.

  "You were there when the Chief Inspector

  made that monstrous suggestion the other

  day? About Mrs. Leonides and myself.

  ... It was monstrous. It makes one

  feel so helpless. One is powerless to prevent

  people thinking things! And it is all so

  wickedly untrue. Just because she is -- was

  -- so many years younger than her husband.

  People have dreadful minds -- dreadful

  minds. ... I feel -- I can't help feeling, that it is all a plot."

  "A plot? That's interesting."

  It was interesting, though not quite in

  the way he took it.

  "The family, you know; Mr. Leonides5 s

  family, have never been sympathetic to me.

  They were always aloof. I always felt that

  they despised me."

  His hands began to shake.

  "Just because they have always been rich

  -- and powerful. They looked down on me.

  What was I to them? Only the tutor. Only

  a wretched conscientious objector. And my

  objections were conscientious. They were

  indeed!"

  I said nothing. K

  "All right then," he burst out. "What if

  I was -- afraid? Afraid I'd make a mess of ^ Afraid that when I had to pull a trigger

  -- I mightn't be able to bring myself to do

  it. How can you be sure it's a Nazi you're

  going to kill? It might be some decent lad

  -- some village boy -- with no political

  leanings, just called up for his country's

  service. I believe war is wrong 5 do you

  understand? I believe it is wrong."

  I was still silent. I believed that my

  silence was achieving more than any arguments

  or agreements could do. Laurence

  Brown was arguing with himself, and in so

  doing was revealing a good deal of himself.

  "Everyone's always laughed at me." His

  voice shook. "I seem to have a knack of

  making myself ridiculous. It isn't that I

  really lack courage -- but I always do the

  thing wrong. I went into a burning house

  to rescue a woman they said was trapped

  there. But I lost the way at once, and the

  smoke made me unconscious, and it gave a

  lot of trouble to the firemen finding me. I

  heard them say, "Why couldn't the silly

  chump leave it to us?' It's no good my

  trying, everyone's against me. Whoever

  killed Mr. Leonides arranged it so that I

  would be suspected. Someone killed him so

  as to ruin me."

  "What about Mrs. Leonides?" I asked.

  He flushed. He became less of a mouse

  and more like a man.

  "Mrs. Leonides is an angel," he said, "an angel. Her sweetness, her kindness to

  her elderly husband were wonderful. To

  think of her in connection with poison is

  laughable -- laughable! And that thickheaded

  Inspector can't see it!"

  "He's prejudiced," I said, "by the number

  of cases on his files where elderly

  husbands have been poisoned by sweet

  young wives."

  "The insufferable dolt," said Laurence

  Brown angrily.

  He went over to a bookcase in the corner

  and began rummaging the books in it. I

  didn't think I should get anything more out

  of him. I went slowly out of the room.

  As I was going along the passage, a door

  on my left opened and Josephine almost

  fell on top of me. Her appearance had the

  suddenness of a demon in an old-fashioned

  pantomime.

  Her face and hands were filthy and a

  large cobweb floated from one ear.

  "Where have you been, Josephine?"

  I peered through the half open door. A

  couple of steps led up into the attic-like

  rectangular space in the gloom of which --,r^,.oi iqrcr^ ranks could be seen.

  "In the cistern room."

  "Why in the cistern room?"

  Josephine replied in a brief businesslike

  way:

  "Detecting."

  "What on earth is there to detect among

  the cisterns?"

  To this, Josephine merely replied:

  "I must wash."

  "I should say most decidedly."

  Josephine disappeared through the nearest

  bathroom door. She looked back to say:

  "I should say it's about time for the next

  murder, wouldn't you?"

  "What do you mean -- the next murder?" ? , "Well, in books there's always a second ^nturder about now. Someone who knows