Crooked House

something is bumped off before they can

  tell what they know."

  "You read too many detective stories, Josephine. Real life isn't like that. And if

  anybody in this house knows something the

  last thing they seem to want to do is to talk

  about it."

  Josephine's reply came to me rather

  obscured by the gushing of water from a

  ^&

  tap. ^

  "Sometimes it's something that they don't

  know that they do know."

  I blinked as I tried to think this out.

  Then, leaving Josephine to her ablutions, I

  went down to the floor below.

  Just as I was going out through the front

  door to the staircase, Brenda came with a

  soft rush through the drawing room door.

  She came close to me and laid her hand

  on my arm, looking up in my face.

  "Well?" she asked.

  It was the same demand for information

  that Laurence had made, only it was phrased

  differently. And her one word far more

  effective.

  I shook my head.

  "Nothing," I said.

  She have a long sigh.

  "I'm so frightened," she said. "Charles,

  I'm so frightened. ..."

  Her fear was very real. It communicated

  itself to me there in that narrow space. I

  wanted to reassure her, to help her. I had

  once more that poignant sense of her as

  terribly alone in hostile surroundings.

  ?She might well have cried out: "Who is

  on my side?"

  And what would the answer have been?

  Laurence Brown? And what, after all, was

  Laurence Brown? No tower of strength in

  a time of trouble. One of the weaker vessels. ^

  I remembered the two of them drifting in

  from the garden the night before.

  I wanted to help her. I badly wanted to

  help her. But there was nothing much I

  could say or do. And I had at the bottom

  of my mind an embarrassed guilty feeling,

  as though Sophia's scornful eyes were

  watching me. I remembered Sophia's voice

  saying: "So she got you."

  And Sophia did not see, did not want to

  see, Brenda's side of it. Alone, suspected

  of murder, with no one to stand by her.

  "The inquest's tomorrow," Brenda said.

  "What ? what will happen?"

  There I could reassure her. i I i

  "Nothing," I said. "You needn't worry

  about that. It will be adjourned for the

  police to make enquiries. It will probably

  set the Press loose, though. So far, there's

  been no indication in the papers that it

  wasn't a natural death. The Leonides have

  got a good deal of influence. But with an

  adjourned inquest ? well, the fun will

  start."

  (What extraordinary things one said! The

  fun! Why must I choose that particular

  word?)

  "Will ? will they be very dreadful?"

  "I shouldn't give any interviews if I were

  you. You know, Brenda, you ought to have

  a lawyer ?" She recoiled with a terrific

  gasp of dismay. "No ? no ? not the way

  you mean. But someone to look after your

  interests and advise you as to procedure,

  and what to say and do, and what not to

  say and do.

  "You see," I added, "you're very much

  alone."

  Her hand pressed my arm more closely.

  "Yes," she said. "You do understand

  that. You've helped, Charles, you have

  helped. . . ."

  I went down the stairs with a feeling of

  warmth, of satisfaction. . . . Then I saw

  Sophia standing by the front door. Her

  voice was cold and rather dry.

  "What a long time you've been," she

  said. "They rang up for you from London.

  Your father wants you."

  "At the Yard?"

  "Yes."

  "I wonder what they want me for. They

  didn't say?"

  Sophia shook her head. Her eyes were

  anxious. I drew her to me.

  "Don't worry, darling," I said, "I'll soon

  be back."

  Seventeen

  There was something strained in the atmosphere

  of my father's room. The Old Man

  sat behind his table. Chief Inspector Taverner

  leaned against the window frame. In

  the visitor's chair, sat Mr. Gaitskill, looking

  ruffled.

  "-- extraordinary want of confidence,"

  he was saying acidly.

  "Of course, of course." My father spoke

  soothingly. "Ah hullo, Charles, you've made

  good time. Rather a surprising development

  has occurred."

  "Unprecedented," Mr. Gaitskill said.

  Something had clearly ruffled the little

  lawyer to the core. Behind him. Chief Inspector

  Taverner grinned at me.

  "If I may recapitulate?" my father said.

  "Mr. Gaitskill received a somewhat surprising

  communication this morning, Charles.

  It was from a Mr. Agrodopolous, proprietor

  of the Delphos Restaurant. He is a very old

  man, a Greek by birth, and when he was a

  young man he was helped and befriended

  by Aristide Leonides. He has always remained

  deeply grateful to his friend and

  benefactor and it seems that Leonides placed

  great reliance and trust in him."

  "I would never have believed Leonides

  was of such a suspicious and secretive

  nature," said Mr. Gaitskill. "Of course, he

  was of advanced years -- practically in his

  dotage, one might say."

  "Nationality tells," said my father gently.

  "You see, Gaitskill, when you are very old

  your mind dwells a good deal on the days

  of your youth and the friends of your

  youth."

  "But Leonides's affairs had been in my

  hands for well over forty years," said Mr.

  Gaitskill. "Forty-three years and six months

  to be precise."

  Taverner grinned again.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  Mr. Gaitskill opened his mouth, but my

  father forestalled him.

  "Mr. Agrodopolous stated in his communication

  that he was obeying certain

  instructions given him by his friend Aristide

  Leonides. Briefly, about a year ago he had

  u^,, ^i-iM'nctp.d hv Mr. Leonides with s

  sealed envelope which Mr. Agrodopolous

  was to forward to Mr. Gaitskill immediately

  after Mr. Leonides's death. In the event of

  Mr. Agrodopolous dying first, his son, a

  godson of Mr. Leonides, was to carry out

  the same instructions. Mr. Agrodopolous

  apologises for the delay, but explains that

  he has been ill with pneumonia and only

  learned of his old friend's death yesterday

  afternoon."

  "The whole business is most unprofessional," said Mr. Gaitskill.

  "When Mr. Gaitskill had opened the

  sealed envelope and made himself acquainted

  with its contents, he decided that

  it was his duty --"

  "Under the circumstances," said Mr.

  Gaitskill.

&nb
sp; "To let us see the enclosures. They

  consist of a will, duly signed and attested, and a covering letter."

  "So the will has turned up at last?" I

  said.

  Mr. Gaitskill turned a bright purple.

  "It is not the same will," he barked. "This is not the document I drew up at

  Mr. Leonides5 s request. This has been Written out in his own hand, a most

  dangerous thing for any layman to do. It

  seems to have been Mr. Leonides's intention

  to make me look a complete fool."

  Chief Inspector Taverner endeavoured to

  inject a little balm into the prevailing

  bitterness.

  "He was a very old gentleman, Mr.

  Gaitskill," he said. "They're inclined to be

  cranky when they get old, you know -- not

  balmy, of course, but just a little eccentric."

  Mr. Gaitskill sniffed.

  "Mr. Gaitskill rang us up," my father

  said, "and apprised us of the main contents

  of the will and I asked him to come round

  and bring the two documents with him. I

  also rang you up, Charles."

  I did not see why I had been rung up. It

  seemed to me singularly unorthodox procedure

  on both my father's and Taverner's

  part. I should have learnt about the will in

  due course, and it was really not my

  business at all how old Leonides had left

  his money.

  "Is it a different will?" I asked. "I mean,

  does it dispose of his estate in a different

  way?"

  "It does indeed," said Mr. Gaitskill.

  My father was looking at me. Chief

  Inspector Taverner was very carefully -/^ i^i^iriCT at rne. Tn some way-? I f6^

  vaguely uneasy. . . .

  Something was going on in both their

  minds -- and it was a something to which

  I had no clue.

  I looked enquiringly at Gaitskill.

  "It's none of my business," I said. "But --"

  He responded.

  "Mr. Leonides's testamentary dispositions

  are not, of course, a secret," he said.

  "I conceived it to be my duty to lay the

  facts before the police authorities first, and

  to be guided by them in my subsequent

  procedure. I understand," he paused, "that

  there is an -- understanding, shall we say

  -- between you and Miss Sophia Leonides?"

  "I hope to marry her," I said, "but she

  will not consent to an engagement at the

  present time."

  "Very proper," said Mr. Gaitskill.

  I disagreed with him. But this was no

  time for argument.

  "By this will," said Mr. Gaitskill, "dated

  November the 29th of last year Mr. Leonides, after a bequest to his wife of one

  hundred and fifty thousand pounds, leaves

  his entire estate, real and personal, to his

  granddaughter, Sophia Katherine Leonides absolutely."

  I gasped. Whatever I had expected, it

  was not this.

  "He left the whole caboodle to Sophia,"

  I said. "What an extraordinary thing. Any

  reason?"

  "He set out his reasons very clearly in

  the covering letter," said my father. He

  picked up a sheet of paper from the desk

  in front of him. "You have no objection to

  Charles reading this, Mr. Gaitskill?"

  "I am in your hands," said Mr. Gaitskill

  coldly. "The letter does at least offer an

  explanation -- and possibly (though I am

  doubtful as to this), an excuse for Mr.

  Leonides's extraordinary conduct."

  The Old Man handed me the letter. It

  was written in a small crabbed handwriting

  in very black ink. The handwriting showed

  character and individuality. It was not at

  all like the handwriting of an old man --

  except perhaps for the careful forming of

  the letters, more characteristic of a bygone

  period, when literacy was something painstakingly

  acquired and correspondingly valued.

  "Dear Gaitskill (it ran)

  You will be astonished to get this,

  and nrobablv offended. But I have my

  own reasons for behaving in what may

  seem to you an unnecessarily secretive

  manner. I have long been a believer in

  the individual. In a family (this I have

  observed in my boyhood and never

  forgotten) there is always one strong

  character and it usually falls to this one

  person to care for, and bear the burden,

  of the rest of the family. In my family I

  was that person. I came to London,

  established myself there, supported my

  mother and my aged grandparents in

  Smyrna, extricated one of my brothers

  from the grip of the law, secured the

  freedom of my sister from an unhappy

  marriage and so on. God has been

  pleased to grant me a long life, and I

  have been able to watch over and care

  for my children and their children.

  Many have been taken from me by

  death; the rest, I am happy to say, are

  under my roof. When I die, the burden

  I have carried must descend on someone

  else. I have debated whether to divide

  my fortune as equally as possible

  amongst my dear ones ? but to do so

  would not eventually result in a proper

  equality. Men are not born equal ? to

  offset the natural inequality of Nature

  one must redress the balance. In other

  words, someone must be my successor, must take upon him or herself the

  burden of responsibility for the rest of

  the family. After close observation I do

  not consider either of my sons fit for

  this responsibility. My dearly loved son

  Roger has no business sense, and

  though of a lovable nature is too impulsive

  to have good judgement. My son

  Philip is too unsure of himself to do

  anything but retreat from life. Eustace, my grandson, is very young and I do

  not think he has the qualities of sense

  and judgement necessary. He is indolent

  and very easily influenced by the ideas

  of anyone whom he meets. Only my

  granddaughter Sophia seems to me to

  have the positive qualities required. She

  has brains, judgement, courage, a fair

  and unbiased mind and, I think, generosity

  of spirit. To her I commit the

  family welfare -- and the welfare of my

  kind sister-in-law Edith de Haviland for

  whose lifelong devotion to the family I

  am deeply grateful.

  This explains the enclosed document.

  What will be harder to explain -- or

  rather to explain to you, my old friend J

  -- is the deception that I have employed.

  I thought it wise not to raise

  speculation about the disposal of my

  money, and I have no intention of

  letting my family know that Sophia is to

  be my heir. Since my two sons have

  already had considerable fortunes settled

  upon them, I do not feel that my testamentary

  dispositions will place them

  in a humiliating position.

  To stifle curiosity and su
rmise, I

  asked you to draw me up a will. This

  will I read aloud to my assembled

  family. I laid it on my desk, placed a

  sheet of blotting paper over it and asked

  for two servants to be summoned.

  When they came I slid the blotting

  paper up a little, exposing the bottom

  of a document, signed my name and

  caused them to sign theirs. I need

  hardly say that what I and they signed

  was the will which I now enclose and

  not the one drafted by you which I had

  read aloud.

  I cannot hope that you will understand

  what prompted me to execute this

  trick. I will merely ask you to forgive

  me for keeping you in the dark. A very

  old man likes to keep his little secrets.

  Thank you 5 my dear friend, for the

  assiduity with which you have always

  attended to my affairs. Give Sophia my

  dear love. Ask her to watch over the

  family well and shield them from harm.

  Yours very sincerely, Aristide Leonides."

  I read this very remarkable document

  with intense interest.

  "Extraordinary," I said.

  "Most extraordinary," said Mr. Gaitskill,

  rising. "I repeat, I think my old friend Mr.

  Leonides might have trusted me."

  "No, Gaitskill," said my father. "He was

  a natural twister. He liked, if I may put it

  so, doing things the crooked way."

  "That's right, sir," said Chief Inspector

  Taverner. "He was a twister if there ever

  was one!"

  He spoke with feeling.

  Gaitskill stalked out unmollified. He had

  been wounded to the depths of his professional

  nature.

  "It's hit him hard," said Taverner. "Very

  respectable firm, Gaitskill, Callum & Gaitskill.

  No hanky panky with them. When

  old Leonides put through a doubtful deal? he never put it through with Gaitskill?

  Callum & Gaitskill. He had half a dozen

  different firms of solicitors who acted for

  him. Oh, he was a twister!"

  "And never more so than when making

  his will," said my father.

  "We were fools," said Taverner. "When

  you come to think of it, the only person

  who could have played tricks with that will

  was the old boy himself. It just never

  occurred to us that he could want to!"

  I remembered Josephine's superior smile

  as she had said:

  "Aren't the police stupid?"

  But Josephine had not been present on

  the occasion of the will. And even if she

  had been listening outside the door (which

  I was fully prepared to believe!) she could

  hardly have guessed what her grandfather

  was doing. Why, then, the superior air?

  What did she know that made her say the

  police were stupid? Or was it, again, just

  showing off?

  Struck by the silence in the room I looked

  up sharply -- both my father and Taverner

  were watching me. I don't know what there

  was in their manner that compelled me to

  blurt out defiantly:

  "Sophia knew nothing about this! Noth|ing

  at all."

  "No?" said my father.

  I didn't quite know whether it was an

  agreement or a question.

  "She'll be absolutely astounded!"

  "Yes?"

  "Astounded!"

  There was a pause. Then, with what

  seemed sudden harshness the telephone on

  my father's desk rang. ;

  "Yes?" He lifted the receiver ? listened,

  and then said, "Put her through."

  He looked at me.

  "It's your young woman," he said. "She

  wants to speak to us. It's urgent."

  I took the receiver from him.

  "Sophia?"

  "Charles? Is that you? It's ? Josephine!"

  Her voice broke slightly.

  "What about Josephine?"

  "She's been hit on the head. Concussion.

  She's ? she's pretty bad. . . . They say

  she may not recover. ..."

  I turned to the other two.

  c "Josephine's been knocked out," I said.

  My father took the receiver from me. He

  said sharply as he did so: t

  "I told you to keep an eye on that

  child. ..."

  Eighteen

  In next to no time Taverner and I were

  racing in a fast police car in the direction

  of Swinly Dean.

  I remembered Josephine emerging, from

  among the cisterns, and her airy remark

  that it was "about time for the second

  murder." The poor child had had no idea

  that she herself was likely to be the victim

  of the "second murder."

  I accepted fully the blame that my father

  had tacitly ascribed to me. Of course I

  ought to have kept an eye on Josephine.

  Though neither Taverner nor I had any

  real clue to the poisoner of old Leonides, it

  was highly possible that Josephine had.

  What I had taken for childish nonsense and

  "showing off" might very well have been

  something quite different. Josephine, in her

  favourite sports of snooping and prying,

  knight have become aware of some piece of

  ^formation that she herself could not assess

  at its proper value.

  I remembered the twig that had cracked

  in the garden.

  I had had an inkling then that danger

  was about. I had acted upon it at the

  moment, and afterwards it had seemed to

  me that my suspicions had been melodramatic

  and unreal. On the contrary. I should

  have realised that this was murder, that

  whoever committed murder had endangered

  their neck, and that consequently that same

  person would not hesitate to repeat the

  crime if by the way safety could be assured.

  Perhaps Magda, but some obscure maternal