Crooked House

fashioned ideas, Charles. But you don't

  quite know what my mother is capable of

  yet. The darling can't help it, but there

  would simply have to be a grand dramatic

  scene. And dramatic scenes aren't the best

  things for anyone recovering from head

  injuries."

  "You do think of everything, don't you,

  my sweet."

  "Well, somebody's got to do the thinking

  now that grandfather's gone."

  I looked at her speculatively. I saw that

  old Leonides's acumen had not deserted

  him. The mantle of his responsibilities was

  already on Sophia's shoulders.

  After the inquest, Gaitskill accompanied

  us back to Three Gables. He cleared his

  throat and said pontifically:

  "There is an announcement it is my duty

  to make to you all."

  For this purpose the family assembled in

  Magda's drawing room. I had on this

  occasion the rather pleasurable sensations

  of the man behind the scenes. I knew in

  advance what Gaitskill had to say.

  I prepared myself to observe the reactions

  of everyone.

  Gaitskill was brief and dry. Any signs of

  personal feeling and annoyance were well

  held in check. He read first Aristide

  Leonides's letter and then the will itself.

  t+ woe ^rv interestine to watch. I only

  wished my eyes could be everywhere at

  once.

  I did not pay much attention to Brenda

  and Laurence. The provision for Brenda in

  this will was the same. I watched primarily

  Roger and Philip, and after them Magda

  and Clemency.

  My first impression was that they all

  behaved very well.

  Philip's lips were pressed closely together,

  his handsome head was thrown back against

  the tall chair in which he was sitting. He

  did not speak.

  Magda, on the contrary, burst into speech

  as soon as Mr. Gaitskill finished, her rich

  voice surging over his thin tones like an

  incoming tide drowning a rivulet.

  "Darling Sophia ? how extraordinary

  .... How romantic. . . . Fancy old

  Sweetie Pie being so cunning and deceitful

  ? just like a dear old baby. Didn't he trust

  us? Did he think we'd be cross? He never

  seemed to be fonder of Sophia than of the

  rest of us. But really, it's most dramatic."

  Suddenly Magda jumped lightly to her

  feet, danced over to Sophia and swept her

  a very grand court curtsey.

  "Madame Sophia, your penniless and

  broken down old mother begs you for

  alms." Her voice took on a cockney whine.

  "Spare us a copper, old dear. Your Ma

  wants to go to the pictures."

  Her hand, crooked into a claw, twitched

  urgently at Sophia.

  Philip, without moving, said through stiff

  lips:

  "Please Magda, there's no call for any

  unnecessary clowning.''

  "Oh, but, Roger," cried Magda, suddenly

  turning to Roger. "Poor darling Roger.

  Sweetie was going to come to the rescue

  and then, before he could do it, he died.

  And now Roger doesn't get anything.

  Sophia," she turned imperiously, "you

  simply must do something about Roger."

  "No," said Clemency. She had moved

  forward a step. Her face was defiant.

  "Nothing. Nothing at all."

  Roger came shambling over to Sophia

  like a large amiable bear.

  He took her hands affectionately.

  "I don't want a penny, my dear girl. As

  soon as this business is cleared up ? or

  has died down, which is more what it looks

  like ? then Clemency and I are off to the

  West Indies and the simple life. If I'm ever

  in extremis I'll apply to the head of the

  f^m}T ?" }-i{^ crrinnpd at hpr enffarinelv ?

  "but until then I don't want a penny. I'm

  a very simple person really, my dear ? you

  ask Clemency if I'm not."

  An unexpected voice broke in. It was

  Edith de Haviland's.

  "That's all very well," she said. "But

  you've to pay some attention to the look of

  the thing. If you go bankrupt, Roger, and

  then slink off to the ends of the earth

  without Sophia's holding out a helping

  hand, there will be a good deal of ill natured

  talk that will not be pleasant for Sophia."

  "What does public opinion matter?"

  asked Clemency scornfully.

  "We know it doesn't to you. Clemency,"

  said Edith de Haviland sharply, "but Sophia

  lives in this world. She's a girl with good

  brains and a good heart, and I've no doubt

  that Aristide was quite right in his selection

  of her to hold the family fortunes ? though

  to pass over your two sons in their lifetime

  seems odd to our English ideas ? but I

  think it would be very unfortunate if it got

  about that she behaved greedily over this

  ? and had let Roger crash without trying

  to help him."

  Roger went over to his aunt. He put his

  arms round her and hugged her.

  "Aunt Edith," he said. "You are a darling

  -- and a stubborn fighter, but you don't

  begin to understand. Clemency and I know

  what we want -- and what we don't want!"

  Clemency, a sudden spot of colour showing

  in each thin cheek, stood defiantly

  facing them.

  "None of you," she said, "understand

  Roger. You never have! I don't suppose

  you ever will! Come on, Roger."

  They left the room as Mr. Gaitskill began

  clearing his throat and arranging his papers.

  His countenance was one of deep disapprobation.

  He disliked the foregoing scenes

  very much. That was clear.

  My eyes came at last to Sophia herself.

  She stood straight and handsome by the

  fireplace, her chin up, her eyes steady. She

  had just been left an immense fortune, but

  my principal thought was how alone she

  had suddenly become. Between her and her

  family a barrier had been erected. Henceforth

  she was divided from them, and I

  fancied that she already knew and faced

  that fact. Old Leonides had laid a burden

  upon her shoulders -- he had been aware

  of that and she knew it herself. He had

  believed that her shoulders were strong

  enough to bear it, but just at this moment

  I felt unutterably sorry for her.

  So far she had not spoken -- indeed she

  had been given no chance, but very soon

  now speech would be forced from her.

  Already, beneath the affection of her family 3

  I could sense latent hostility. Even in

  Magda's graceful playacting there had been, I fancied, a subtle malice. And there were

  other darker undercurrents that had not yet

  come to the surface.

  Mr. Gaitskill's throat clearings gave way

  to precise and measured speech.

  "Allow me to congratulate you, Sophia," he said
. "You are a very wealthy woman. I

  should not advise any -- er -- precipitate

  action. I can advance you what ready money

  is needed for current expenses. If you wish

  to discuss future arrangements I shall be

  happy to give you the best advice in my

  power. Make an appointment with me at

  Lincoln's Inn when you have had plenty of

  time to think things over."

  "Roger," began Edith de Haviland obstinately.

  Mr. Gaitskill snapped in quickly.

  "Roger," he said, "must fend for himself.

  He's a grown man -- er, fifty four, I

  believe. And Aristide Leonides was quite

  right, you know. He isn't a businessman.

  Never will be." He looked at Sophia. "If

  you put Associated Catering on its legs

  again, don't be under any illusions that

  Roger can run it successfully."

  "I shouldn't dream of putting Associated

  Catering on its legs again," said Sophia.

  It was the first time she had spoken. Her

  voice was crisp and businesslike.

  "It would be an idiotic thing to do," she

  added.

  Gaitskill shot a glance at her from under

  his brows, and smiled to himself. Then he

  wished everyone goodbye and went out.

  There were a few moments of silence, a

  realisation that the family circle was alone

  with itself.

  Then Philip got up stiffly.

  "I must get back to the library," he said.

  "I have lost a lot of time."

  "Father --" Sophia spoke uncertainly, almost pleadingly.

  I felt her quiver and draw back as Philip

  turned cold hostile eyes on her.

  "You must forgive me for not congratulating

  you," he said. "But this has been

  rather a shock to me. I would not have believed

  that my father would so have humiliated

  me -- that he would have disregarded

  my lifetime's devotion -- yes -- devotion."

  For the first time, the natural man broke

  K

  through the crust of icy restraint.

  "My God," he cried. "How could he do

  this to me? He was always unfair to me --

  always."

  "Oh no, Philip, no, you mustn't think

  that," cried Edith de Haviland. "Don't

  regard this as another slight. It isn't. When

  people get old, they turn naturally to a

  younger generation. ... I assure you it's

  only that. . . . And besides, Aristide had

  a very keen business sense. I've often heard

  him say that two lots of death duties --"

  "He never cared for me," said Philip.

  His voice was low and hoarse. "It was

  always Roger -- Roger. Well, at least --"

  an extraordinary expression of spite suddenly

  marred his handsome features, "father

  realised that Roger was a fool and a failure.

  He cut Roger out, too."

  "What about me?" said Eustace.

  I had hardly noticed Eustace until now, but I perceived that he was trembling with

  some violent emotion. His face was crimson, there were, I thought, tears in his eyes. His

  voice shook as it rose hysterically.

  "It's a shame!" said Eustace. "It's a

  damned shame! How dare Grandfather do

  this to me? How dare he? I was his only

  grandson. How dare he pass me over for

  Sophia? It's not fair. I hate him. I hate

  him. I'll never forgive him as long as I live.

  Beastly tyrannical old man. I wanted him

  to die. I wanted to get out of this house. I

  wanted to be my own master. And now

  I've got to be bullied and messed around

  by Sophia, and made to look a fool. I wish

  I was dead. ..."

  His voice broke and he rushed out of the

  room.

  Edith de Haviland gave a sharp click of

  her tongue.

  "No self control 5" she murmured.

  "I know just how he feels," cried Magda.

  "I'm sure you do," said Edith with acidity

  in her tone.

  "The poor sweet! I must go after him."

  "Now, Magda --" Edith hurried after

  her.

  Their voices died away. Sophia remained

  looking at Philip. There was, I think, a

  certain pleading in her glance. If so, it got

  no response. He looked at her coldly, quite

  in control of himself once more.

  "You played your cards very well, Sophia,"

  he said and went out of the room.

  "That was a cruel thing to say," I cried.

  "Sophia --"

  She stretched out her hands to me. I took

  her in my arms.

  "This is too much for you, my sweet."

  "I know just how they feel," said Sophia.

  "That old devil, your grandfather, shouldn't have let you in for this."

  She straightened her shoulders.

  "He believed I could take it. And so I

  can. I wish -- I wish Eustace didn't mind

  so much."

  "He'll get over it."

  "Will he? I wonder. He's the kind that

  broods terribly. And I hate father being

  hurt."

  "Your mother's all right."

  "She minds a bit. It goes against the

  grain to have to come and ask your daughter

  for money to put on plays. She'll be after

  me to put on the Edith Thompson one

  before you can turn round."

  "And what will you say? If it keeps her

  happy ..."

  Sophia pulled herself right out of my

  arms, her head went back.

  "I shall say No! It's a rotten play and

  mother couldn't play the part. It would be

  throwing the money away."

  I laughed softly. I couldn't help it.

  "What is it?" Sophia demanded suspiciously.

  ?T?.

  'I'm beginning to understand why your

  grandfather left you his money. You're a

  chip off the old block, Sophia."

  Twenty-one

  My one feeling of regret at this time was

  that Josephine was out of it all. She would

  have enjoyed it all so much.

  Her recovery was rapid and she was

  expected to be back any day now, but

  nevertheless she missed another event of

  importance.

  I was in the rock garden one morning

  with Sophia and Brenda when a car drew

  up to the front door. Taverner and Sergeant

  Lamb got out of it. They went up the steps

  and into the house.

  Brenda stood still, staring at the car.

  "It's those men," she said. "They've

  come back, and I thought they'd given up

  _ ? I thought it was all over."

  K I saw her shiver.

  She had joined us about ten minutes

  s before. Wrapped in her chinchilla coat, she

  had said "If I don't get some air and

  ? exercise, I shall go mad. If I go outside the

  gate there's always a reporter waiting to

  pounce on me. It's like being besieged. Will

  it go on for ever?"

  Sophia said that she supposed the reporters

  would soon get tired of it.

  "You can go out in the car," she added.

  "I tell you I want to get some exercise."

  Then she said abruptly:


  "You've given Laurence the sack, Sophia.

  Why?"

  Sophia answered quietly:

  "We're making other arrangements for

  Eustace. And Josephine is going to Switzerland."

  "Well, you've upset Laurence very much.

  He feels you don't trust him."

  Sophia did not reply and it was at that

  moment that Taverner's car had arrived.

  Standing there, shivering in the moist autumn air, Brenda muttered, "What do

  they want? Why have they come?"

  I thought I knew why they had come. I

  had said nothing to Sophia of the letters I

  had found by the cistern, but I knew that

  they had gone to the Director of Public

  Prosecutions.

  Taverner came out of the house again.

  He walked across the drive and the lawn

  towards us. Brenda shivered more violently.

  "What does he want?" she repeated

  nervously. "What does he want?"

  Then Taverner was with us. He spoke

  curtly in his official voice using the official

  phrases.

  "I have a warrant here for your arrest ?

  you are charged with administering eserine

  to Aristide Leonides on September 19th

  last. I must warn you that anything you say

  may be used in evidence at your trial."

  And then Brenda went to pieces. She

  screamed. She clung to me. She cried out,

  "No, no, no, it isn't true! Charles, tell them

  it isn't true! I didn't do it. I didn't know

  f anything about it. It's all a plot. Don't let

  them take me away. It isn't true, I tell

  you. ... It isn't true. ... I haven't done

  anything. ..."

  It was horrible ? unbelievably horrible.

  I tried to soothe her, I unfastened her

  fingers from my arm. I told her that I

  would arrange for a lawyer for her ? that

  she was to keep calm ? that a lawyer would

  arrange everything. . . .

  Taverner took her gently under the elbow.

  "Come along, Mrs. Leonides," he said.

  "You don't want a hat, do you? No? Then

  we'll go off right away."

  She pulled back, staring at him with

  enormous cat's eyes.

  "Laurence," she said. "What have you

  done to Laurence?"

  "Mr. Laurence Brown is also under

  arrest," said Taverner.

  She wilted then. Her body seemed to

  collapse and shrink. The tears poured down

  her face. She went away quietly with

  Taverner across the lawn to the car. I saw

  Laurence Brown and Sergeant Lamb come

  out of the house. They all got into the

  car. . . . The car drove away.

  I drew a deep breath and turned to

  Sophia. She was very pale and there was a

  look of distress on her face.

  "It's horrible, Charles," she said. "It's

  quite horrible."

  "I know."

  "You must get her a really first class

  solicitor ? the best there is. She ? she

  must have all the help possible."

  "One doesn't realise," I said, "what these

  things are like. I've never seen anyone

  arrested before."

  "I know. One has no idea."

  We were both silent. I was thinking of

  the desperate terror on Brenda's face. It

  had seemed familiar to me and suddenly I

  realised why. It was the same expression

  that I had seen on Magda Leonides's face

  the first day I had come to the Crooked

  House when she had been talking about the

  Edith Thompson play.

  "And then," she had said, "sheer terror, don't you think so?"

  Sheer terror -- that was what had been

  on Brenda's face. Brenda was not a fighter.

  I wondered that she had ever had the nerve

  to do murder. But possibly she had not.

  Possibly it had been Laurence Brown, with

  his persecution mania, his unstable personality

  who had put the contents of one little

  bottle into another little bottle -- a simple

  easy act -- to free the woman he loved.

  "So it's over," said Sophia.

  She sighed deeply, then asked:

  "But why arrest them now? I thought

  there wasn't enough evidence."

  "A certain amount of evidence has come

  to light. Letters."

  "You mean love letters between them?"

  "Yes."

  "What fools people are to keep these

  things!"

  Yes, indeed. Fools. The kind of folly

  which never seemed to profit by the

  experience of others. You couldn't open a

  daily newspaper without coming across some

  instance of that folly ? the passion to keep

  the written word, the written assurance of

  love.

  "It's quite beastly, Sophia," I said. "But

  it's no good minding about it. After all, it's

  what we've been hoping all along, isn't it?

  It's what you said that first night at Mario's.

  You said it would be all right if the right

  person had killed your grandfather. Brenda

  was the right person, wasn't she? Brenda

  or Laurence?"

  "Don't. Charles, you make me feel

  awful."

  "But we must be sensible. We can marry

  now, Sophia. You can't hold me off any

  longer. The Leonides family are out of it."

  She stared at me. I had never realised

  before the vivid blue of her eyes.

  "Yes," she said. "I suppose we're out of

  it now. We are out of it, aren't we? You're

  sure?"

  "My dear girl, none of you really had a

  shadow of motive."

  Her face went suddenly white.

  "Except me, Charles. I had a motive."

  "Yes, of course ?" I was taken aback.

  "But not really. You didn't know, you see,

  about the will."

  "But I did, Charles," she whispered. ?|

  "What?" I stared at her. I felt suddenly