Crooked House

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