believes it was Brenda and he wholeheartedly
wants her hanged. It's -- it's a
relief to be with Roger because he's simple
and positive, and hasn't any reservations in
the back of his mind.
"But the others are apologetic, they're
uneasy ? they urge me to be sure that
Brenda has the best defence ? that every
possible advantage is given her ? why?"
My father answered:
"Because they don't really, in their hearts,
believe she is guilty. . . . Yes, that's
sound."
Then he asked quietly:
K "Who could have done it? You've talked
to them all? Who's the best bet?"
"I don't know," I said. "And it's driving
me frantic. None of them fits your 'sketch
of a murderer' and yet I feel ? I do feel
? that one of them is a murderer."
"Sophia?"
"No. Good God, no!"
"The possibility's in your mind, Charles
? yes, it is, don't deny it. All the more
potently because you won't acknowledge it.
What about the others? Philip?"
"Only for the most fantastic motive."
"Motives can be fantastic ? or they can
be absurdly slight. What's his motive?"
"He is bitterly jealous of Roger ? always
has been all his life. His father's preference
for Roger drove Philip in upon himself.
Roger was about to crash, then the old man
heard of it. He promised to put Roger on
his feet again. Supposing Philip learnt
that. If the old man died that night there
would be no assistance for Roger. Roger
would be down and out. Oh! I know it's
absurd ?"
"Oh no, it isn't. It's abnormal, but it
happens. It's human. What about Magda?"
"She's rather childish. She ? gets things
out of proportion. But I would never have
thought twice about her being involved if
it hadn't been for the sudden way she
wanted to pack Josephine off to Switzerland.
I couldn't help feeling she was afraid of
something that Josephine knew or might
say . . ."
"And then Josephine was conked on the
head?"
"Well, that couldn't be her mother!"
"Why not?"
"But, dad, a mother wouldn't ?"
"Charles, Charles, don't you ever read
the police news. Again and again a mother
takes a dislike to one of her children. Only
one ? she may be devoted to the others.
There's some association, some reason, but
it's often hard to get at. But when it exists,
it's an unreasoning aversion, and it's very
strong."
"She called Josephine a changeling," I
admitted unwillingly.
"Did the child mind?"
"I don't think so."
"Who else is there? Roger?"
"Roger didn't kill his father. I'm quite
sure of that."
"Wash out Roger then. His wife --
what's her name -- Clemency?"
"Yes," I said. "If she killed old Leonides
it was for a very odd reason."
^ I told him of my conversations with
Clemency. I said I thought it possible that
in her passion to get Roger away from
England she might have deliberately poisoned
the old man.
"She'd persuaded Roger to go without
telling his father. Then the old man found
out. He was going to back up Associated
Catering. All Clemency's hopes and plans
were frustrated. And she really does care
desperately for Roger -- beyond idolatry."
"You're repeating what Edith de Haviland
said!"
"Yes. And Edith's another who I think
-- might have done it. But I don't know
why. I can only believe that for what she
considered good and sufficient reason she
might take the law into her own hand. She's
that kind of a person."
"And she also was very anxious that
Brenda should be adequately defended?"
"Yes. That, I suppose, might be conscience.
I don't think for a moment that if
she did do it, she intended them to be
accused of the crime."
"Probably not. But would she knock out
the child Josephine?"
"No," I said slowly, "I can't believe that.
Which reminds me that there's something
that Josephine said to me that keeps nagging
at my mind, and I can't remember what
it is. It's slipped my memory. But it's
something that doesn't fit in where it
should. If only I could remember --"
"Never mind. It will come back. Anything
or anyone else on your mind?"
"Yes," I said. "Very much so. How
much do you know about infantile paralysis.
Its after effects on character, I mean?"
"Eustace?"
"Yes. The more I think about it, the
more it seems to me that Eustace might fit
the bill. His dislikes and resentment against
his grandfather. His queerness and moodiness.
He's not normal.
"He's the only one of the family who I
can see knocking out Josephine quite
callously if she knew something about him
-- and she's quite likely to know. That
child knows everything. She writes it down
in a little book --"
I stopped.
"Good Lord," I said. "What a fool I
am."
"What's the matter?"
"I know now what was wrong. We
assumed, Taverner and I, that the wrecking
of Josephine's room, the frantic search, was
for those letters. I thought that she'd got
hold of them and that she'd hidden them
up in the cistern room. But when she was
talking to me the other day she made it
quite clear that it was Laurence who had
hidden them there. She saw him coming
out of the cistern room and went snooping
around and found the letters. Then, of
course she read them. She would! But she
left them where they were."
"Well?"
"Don't you see? It couldn't have been
the letters someone was looking for in
Josephine's room. It must have been something
else."
"And that something --"
"Was the little black book she writes
down her 'detection5 in. That's what someone
was looking for! I think, too, that
whoever it was didn't find it. I think
Josephine has it. But if so --"
I half rose.
"If so," said my father, "she still isn't
safe. Is that what you were going to say?"
"Yes. She won't be out of danger until
she's actually started for Switzerland.
They're planning to send her there, you
know."
"Does she want to go?"
I considered.
"I don't think she does."
"Then she probably hasn't gone," said
my father drily. "But I think you're right
about the danger. You'd better go down
there."
"Eustace?" I cried desperately. "Clemency?"
&nbs
p; My father said gently:
"To my mind the facts point clearly in
one direction. ... I wonder you don't see
it yourself. I ..."
Glover opened the door.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Charles, the telephone.
Miss Leonides speaking from Swinly. It's
urgent."
It seemed like a horrible repetition. Had
Josephine again fallen a victim. And had
the murderer this time made no mistake?
. . .
I hurried to the telephone.
"Sophia? It's Charles here."
Sophia's voice came with a kind of hard
desperation in it.
"Charles, it isn't all over. The murderer
is still here."
"What on earth do you mean? What's
wrong? Is it -- Josephine?"
"It's not Josephine. It's Nannie."
"Nannie?"
"Yes, there was some cocoa -- Josephine's
cocoa, she didn't drink it. She left it on the
table. Nannie thought it was a pity to waste
it. So she drank it."
"Poor Nannie. Is she very bad?"
Sophia's voice broke.
"Oh, Charles, she's dead."
Twenty-four
We were back again in the nightmare.
That is what I thought as Taverner and
I drove out of London. It was a repetition
of our former journey.
At intervals, Taverner swore.
As for me, I repeated from time to time,
stupidly, unprofitably:
"So it wasn't Brenda and Laurence. It
wasn't Brenda and Laurence."
Had I ever really thought it was? I had
been so glad to think it. So glad to escape
from other, more sinister, possibilities . . .
They had fallen in love with each other.
They had written silly sentimental romantic
letters to each other. They had indulged in
hopes that Brenda5 s old husband might
soon die peacefully and happily ? but I
wondered really if they had even acutely
desired his death. I had a feeling that the
despairs and longings of an unhappy love
affair suited them as well or better than
commonplace married life together. I didn't
think Brenda was really passionate. She was
too anaemic, too apathetic. It was romance
she craved for. And I thought Laurence,
too, was the type to enjoy frustration and
vague future dreams of bliss rather than the
concrete satisfactions of the flesh.
They had been caught in a trap and,
terrified, they had not had the wit to find
their way out. Laurence with incredible
stupidity, had not even destroyed Brenda5 s
letters. Presumably Brenda had destroyed
his, since they had not been found. And it
was not Laurence who had balanced the
marble door stop on the wash house door.
It was someone else whose face was still
hidden behind a mask.
We drove up to the door. Taverner got
out and I followed him. There was a plain
clothes man in the hall whom I didn't
know. He saluted Taverner and Taverner
drew him aside.
My attention was taken by a pile of
luggage in the hall. It was labelled and
ready for departure. As I looked at it
Clemency came down the stairs and through
the open door at the bottom. She was
dressed in her same red dress with a tweed
coat over it and a red felt hat.
'*.
, 'f'f
.IPfeY
?"?air'.^?. '?? . ? '? ?'
' ^A-'ft^A? -
?aSKN.'^1^- ' "S-S^W:
"You're in time to say goodbye, Charles,"
she said.
"You're leaving?"
"We go to London tonight. Our plane
goes early tomorrow morning."
She was quiet and smiling, but I thought
her eyes were watchful.
"But surely you can't go now?"
"Why not?" Her voice was hard.
"With this death ?"
"Nannie's death has nothing to do with
us."
"Perhaps not. But all the same ?"
"Why do you say 'perhaps not'? It has
nothing to do with us. Roger and I have
been upstairs, finishing packing up. We did
not come down at all during the time that
the cocoa was left on the hall table."
"Can you prove that?"
"I can answer for Roger. And Roger can
answer for me."
"No more than that . . . You're man
and wife, remember."
Her anger flamed out.
"You're impossible, Charles! Roger and
I are going away ? to lead our own life.
Why on earth should we want to poison a
nice stupid old woman who had never done
us any harm?"
"It mightn't have been her you meant to
poison."
"Still less are we likely to poison a child."
"It depends rather on the child, doesn't
it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Josephine isn't quite the ordinary
child. She knows a good deal about people.
She --"
I broke off. Josephine had emerged from
the door leading to the drawing room. She
was eating the inevitable apple, and over
its round rosiness her eyes sparkled with a
kind of ghoulish enjoyment.
"Nannie's been poisoned," she said. "Just
like grandfather. It's awfully exciting, isn't
it?"
"Aren't you at all upset about it?" I
demanded severely. "You were fond of her, weren't you?"
"Not particularly. She was always scolding
me about something or other. She
fussed."
"Are you fond of anybody, Josephine?"
asked Clemency.
Josephine turned her ghoulish eyes towards
Clemency.
"I love Aunt Edith," she said. "I love
Aunt Edith very much. And I could love
Eustace, only he's always such a beast to
me and won't be interested in finding out
who did all this."
"You'd better stop finding things out, Josephine," I said. "It isn't very safe."
"I don't need to find out any more," said
Josephine. "I know."
There was a moment's silence. Josephine's
eyes, solemn and unwinking, were
fixed on Clemency. A sound like a long
sigh, reached my ears. I swung sharply
round. Edith de Haviland stood half way
down the staircase -- but I did not think it
was she who had sighed. The sound had
come from behind the door through which
Josephine had just come.
I stepped sharply across to it and yanked
it open. There was no one to be seen.
Nevertheless I was seriously disturbed.
Someone had stood just within that door
and had heard those words of Josephine's.
I went back and took Josephine by the arm.
She was eating her apple and staring stolidly
at Clemency. Behind the solemnity there
was, I thought, a certain malignant satisfaction.
"Come on, Josephine," I said. "We're
going to have a little talk."
I think Josephine might h
ave protested,
but I was not standing any nonsense. I ran
her along forcibly into her own part of the
house. There was a small unused morning
room where we could be reasonably sure of
being undisturbed. I took her in there, closed the door firmly, and made her sit on
a chair. I took another chair and drew it
forward so that I faced her.
"Now, Josephine," I said, "we're going
to have a show down. What exactly do you
know?"
"Lots of things."
"That I have no doubt about. That
noddle of yours is probably crammed to
overflowing with relevant and irrelevant
information. But you know perfectly what
I mean. Don't you?"
"Of course I do. I'm not stupid."
I didn't know whether the disparagement
was for me or the police, but I paid no
attention to it and went on:
"You know who put something in your
cocoa?"
Josephine nodded.
"You know who poisoned your grandfather?"
Josephine nodded again.
"And who knocked you on the head?"
Again Josephine nodded.
"Then you're going to come across with
what you know. You're going to tell me all
about it ? now."
"Shan't."
"You've got to. Every bit of information
you've got or ferret out has got to be given
to the police."
"I won't tell the police anything. They're
stupid. They thought Brenda had done it
? or Laurence. I wasn't stupid like that. I
knew jolly well they hadn't done it. I've
had an idea who it was all along, and then
I made a kind of test ? and now I know
I'm right."
She finished on a triumphant note.
I prayed to Heaven for patience and
started again.
"Listen, Josephine, I daresay you're
extremely clever ?" Josephine looked
gratified. "But it won't be much good to
you to be clever if you're not alive to enjoy
the fact. Don't you see, you little fool, that
as long as you keep your secrets in this silly
way you're in imminent danger?"
Josephine nodded approvingly.
"Of course I am."
"Already you've had two very narrow
escapes. One attempt nearly did for you.
The other has cost somebody else their life.
Don't you see if you go on strutting about
the house and proclaiming at the top of
your voice you know who the killer is,
there will be more attempts made ? and
that either you'll die or somebody else
will?"
"In some books person after person is
killed," Josephine informed me with gusto.
"You end by spotting the murderer because
he or she is practically the only person
left."
"This isn't a detective story. This is
Three Gables, Swinly Dean, and you're a
silly little girl who's read more than is good
for her. I'll make you tell me what you
know if I have to shake you till your teeth
rattle."
"I could always tell you something that
wasn't true."
"You could, but you won't. What are
you waiting for, anyway?"
"You don't understand," said Josephine.
"Perhaps I may never tell. You see, I might
be ? fond of the person."
She paused as though to let this sink
in.
"And if I do tell," she went on, "I shall
do it properly. I shall have everybody sitting
round, and then I'll go over it all ? with
the clues, and then I shall say, quite
suddenly:
"And it was you ..."
She thrust out a dramatic forefinger just
as Edith de Haviland entered the room.
"Put that core in the waste paper basket,
Josephine," said Edith. "Have you got a
handkerchief? Your fingers are sticky. I'm
taking you out in the car." Her eyes met
mine with significance as she said: "She'll
be safer out of here for the next hour or
so." As Josephine looked mutinous, Edith
added: "We'll go into Longbridge and have
an ice cream soda."
Josephine's eyes brightened and she said:
"Two."
"Perhaps," said Edith. "Now go and get
your hat and coat on and your dark blue
scarf. It's cold out today. Charles, you had
better go with her while she gets them.
Don't leave her. I have just a couple of
notes to write."
She sat down at the desk, and I escorted
Josephine out of the room. Even without
Edith's warning, I would have stuck to
Josephine like a leech.
I was convinced that there was danger to
the child very near at hand.
As I finished superintending Josephine's
toilet, Sophia came into the room. She
seemed astonished to see me.
"Why, Charles, have you turned nursemaid?
I didn't know you were here."
"I'm going in to Longbridge with Aunt
Edith," said Josephine importantly. "We're
going to have icecreams."
"Brrrr, on a day like this?"
"Ice cream sodas are always lovely," said
Josephine. "When you're cold inside, it
makes you feel hotter outside."
Sophia frowned. She looked worried, and
I was shocked by her pallor and the circles
under her eyes.
We went back to the morning room.
Edith was just blotting a couple of envelopes.
She got up briskly.
"We'll start now," she said. "I told Evans
to bring round the Ford."
She swept out to the hall. We followed
her.
My eye was again caught by the suitcases
and their blue labels. For some reason they
aroused in me a vague disquietude.
"It's quite a nice day," said Edith de
Haviland, pulling on her gloves and glancing
up at the sky. The Ford 10 was waiting in
front of the house. "Cold -- but bracing.
A real English autumn day. How beautiful