Roger, clumsily, was pouring out drinks
from a tantalus, sweeping books and papers
off one of the chairs.
"Place is in a mess. I was turning out.
Clearing up old papers. Say when." The
Inspector declined a drink. I accepted.
"You must forgive me just now," went on
Roger. He brought my drink over to me, turning his head to speak to Taverner as he
did so. "My feelings ran away with me."
He looked around almost guiltily, but
Clemency Leonides had not accompanied
us into the room.
"She's so wonderful," he said. "My wife, I mean. All through this, she's been splendid
-- splendid! I can't tell you how I
admire that woman. And she's had such a
hard time -- a terrible time. I'd like to tell
you about it. Before we were married, I mean. Her first husband was a fine chap
-- fine mind, I mean -- but terribly delicate
-- tubercular as a matter of fact. He was
doing some very valuable research work on
crystallography, I believe. Poorly paid and
very exacting, but he wouldn't give up. She
slaved for him, practically kept him, knowing
all the time that he was dying. And
never a complaint -- never a murmur of
wpanness. She always said she was happy.
Then he died, and she was terribly cut up.
At last she agreed to marry me. I was glad
to be able to give her some rest, some
happiness, I wished she would stop working,
but of course she felt it her duty in war
time, and she still seems to feel she should
go on. She's been a wonderful wife ? the
most wonderful wife a man ever had. Gosh,
I've been lucky! I'd do anything for her."
Taverner made a suitable rejoinder. Then
he embarked once more on the familiar
routine questions. When had he first heard
of his father's illness?
"Brenda had rushed over to call me. My
father was ill ? she said he had had a
seizure of some sort.
"I'd been sitting with the dear old boy
only about half an hour earlier. He'd been
perfectly all right then. I rushed over. He
was blue in the face, gasping. I dashed
down to Philip. He rang up the doctor. I
? we couldn't do anything. Of course
I never dreamed for a moment then that
there had been any funny business. Funny?
Did I say funny? God, what a word to
use."
With a little difficulty, Taverner and I
disentangled ourselves from the emotional
atmosphere of Roger Leonides's room and
found ourselves outside the door, once more
at the top of the stairs.
"Whew!" said Taverner. "What a contrast
from the other brother." He added, rather inconsequently "Curious things, rooms. Tell you quite a lot about the people j
who live in them." ^
I agreed and he went on.
"Curious the people who marry each
other, too, isn't it?" .,. ^
I was not quite sure if he was referring
to Clemency and Roger, or to Philip and
Magda. His words applied equally well to
either. Yet it seemed to me that both the
marriages might be classed as happy ones.
Roger's and Clemency's certainly was.
"I shouldn't say he was a poisoner, would |
you?" asked Taverner. "Not off hand, I
wouldn't. Of course, you never know. Now j
she's more the type. Remorseless sort of
woman. Might be a bit mad."
Again I agreed. "But I don't suppose,"
I said, "that she'd murder anyone just
because she didn't approve of their aims
and mode of life. Perhaps, if she really
hated the old man -- but are any murders
committed just out of pure hate?"
"Precious few," said Taverner. "I've ^m^ aprnss one mvself. No, I think
we're a good deal safer to stick to Mrs.
Brenda. But God knows if we'll ever get
any evidence."
Eight
A parlourmaid opened the door of the
opposite wing to us. She looked scared but
slightly contemptuous when she saw Taverner.
"You want to see the mistress?"
"Yes, please."
She showed us into a big drawing room
and went out.
Its proportions were the same as the
drawing room on the ground floor below.
There were coloured cretonnes, very gay in
colour and striped silk curtains. Over the
mantelpiece was a portrait that held my
gaze riveted -- not only because of the
master hand that had painted it, but also
because of the arresting face of the subject.
It was the portrait of a little old man
with dark piercing eyes. He wore a black
velvet skull cap and his head was sunk
down in his shoulders, but the vitality and
power of the man radiated forth from the
canvas. The twinkling eyes seemed to hold
mine.
I "That's him," said Chief Inspector Taverner
ungrammatically. "Painted by Augustus
John. Got a personality, hasn't he?"
I "Yes," I said and felt the monosyllable
pounds was inadequate.
I I understood now just what Edith de
Haviland had meant when she said the
house seemed so empty without him. This
was the Original Crooked Little Man who
had built the Crooked Little House -- and
without him the Crooked Little House had
lost its meaning.
"That's his first wife over there, painted
by Sargent," said Taverner.
I examined the picture on the wall
between the windows. It had a certain
cruelty like many of Sargent's portraits.
The length of the face was exaggerated, I
thought -- so was the faint suggestion of
horsiness -- the indisputable correctness --
It was a portrait of a typical English Lady
-- in Country (not Smart) Society. Handsome, but rather lifeless. A most unlikely
wife for the grinning powerful little despot
over the mantelpiece.
H The door opened and Sergeant Lamb
stepped in.
"I've done what I could with the servants, sir," he said. "Didn't get anything."
Taverner sighed.
Sergeant Lamb took out his notebook
and retreated to the far end of the room
where he seated himself unobtrusively.
The door opened again and Aristide
Leonides's second wife came into the room.
She wore black -- very expensive black
and a good deal of it. It swathed her up to
the neck and down to the wrists. She moved
easily and indolently, and black certainly
suited her. Her face was mildly pretty and
she had rather nice brown hair arranged in
somewhat too elaborate a style. Her face
was well powdered and she had on lipstick
and rouge, but she had clearly been crying.
She was wearing a string of very large pearls fl
and she had a big emerald ring on one hand
and an enormous ruby on the other.
There was one other thing I noticed
about
her. She looked frightened.
"Good morning, Mrs. Leonides," said
Taverner easily. "I'm sorry to have to trouble
you again."
She said in a flat voice:
"I suppose it can't be helped."
"You understand, don't you, Mrs. Leonides,
that if you wish your solicitor to be
present, that is perfectly in order."
I wondered if she did understand the
significance of those words. Apparently not.
She merely said rather sulkily:
"I don't like Mr. Gaitskill. I don't want
him."
"You could have your own solicitor, Mrs.
Leonides."
"Must I? I don't like solicitors. They
confuse me."
"It's entirely for you to decide," said
Taverner, producing an automatic smile.
"Shall we go on, then?"
Sergeant Lamb licked his pencil. Brenda
Leonides sat down on a sofa facing Taverner.
"Have you found out anything?" she
asked, a
I noticed her fingers nervously twisting
and untwisting a pleat of the chiffon of her
dress.
"We can state definitely now that your
husband died as a result of eserine poisoning."
"You mean those eyedrops killed him?"
"It seems quite certain that when you
gave Mr. Leonides that last injection, it
was eserine that you injected and not
insulin."
"But I didn't know that. I didn't have
anything to do with it. Really I didn't,
Inspector."
"Then somebody must have deliberately
replaced the insulin by the eyedrops."
"What a wicked thing to do!"
"Yes, Mrs. Leonides."
"Do you think ? someone did it on
purpose? Or by accident? It couldn't have
been a ? a joke, could it?"
Taverner said smoothly:
"We don't think it was a joke, Mrs.
Leonides."
"It must have been one of the servants."
Taverner did not answer.
"It must. I don't ^ee who else could have
done it."
"Are you sure? Think, Mrs. Leonides.
Haven't you any ideas at all? There's been
no ill feeling anywhere? No quarrel? No
grudge?"
She still stared at him with large defiant
eyes.
"I've no idea at all," she said.
"You had been at the cinema that
afternoon, you said?"
"Yes ? I came in at half past six ? it
was time for the insulin ? I ? I ? gave
him the injection just the same as usual and
he went all aueer. I was terrified
-- I rushed over to Roger -- I've told you
all this before. Have I got to go over it
again and again?" Her voice rose hysterically.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Leonides. Now can
I speak to Mr. Brown?"
"To Laurence? Why? He doesn't know
anything about it."
"I'd like to speak to him all the same."
She stared at him suspiciously.
"Eustace is doing Latin with him in the
schoolroom. Do you want him to come
here?"
"No -- we'll go to him."
Taverner went quickly out of the room.
The Sergeant and I followed. I
"You've put the wind up her, sir," said
Sergeant Lamb.
Taverner grunted. He led the way up a
short flight of steps and along a passage
into a big room looking over the garden.
There a fair haired young man of about
thirty and a handsome dark boy of sixteen
were sitting at a table.
They looked up at our entrance. Sophia's
brother Eustace looked at me, Laurence
Brown fixed an agonised gaze on Chief
Inspector Taverner.
I have never seen a man look so completely
paralysed with fright. He stood up, then
sat down again. He said, and his voice was
almost a squeak,
"Oh ? er ? good morning. Inspector."
"Good morning," Taverner was curt.
"Can I have a word with you?" c
"Yes, of course. Only too pleased. At
least?" ..
Eustace got up.
"Do you want me to go away. Chief
Inspector?" His voice was pleasant with a
faintly arrogant note. I r yi
"We ? we can continue our studies
later," said the tutor.
Eustace strolled negligently towards the
door. He walked rather stiffly. Just as he
went through the door, he caught my eye,
drew a forefinger across the front of his
throat and grinned. Then he shut the door
behind him. '^
,^"Well, Mr. Brown," said Taverner. "The
analysis is quite definite. It was eserine that
caused Mr. Leonides's death."
' "I ? you mean ? Mr. Leonides was
really poisoned? I have been hoping ?"
"He was poisoned," said Taverner curtly.
"Someone substituted eserine eyedrops for
insulin."
"I can't believe it. ... It's incredible." ^J
BB^. .
B^The question is, who had a motive?"
"Nobody. Nobody at all!" The young
man's voice rose excitedly.
"You wouldn't like to have your solicitor
present, would you?" inquired Taverner.
"I haven't got a solicitor. I don't want
one. I have nothing to hide -- nothing
. . ."
"And you quite understand that what
you say is about to be taken down."
"I'm innocent -- I assure you, I'm
innocent."
"I have not suggested anything else."
Taverner paused. "Mrs. Leonides was a
good deal younger than her husband, was
she not?"
"I -- I suppose so -- I mean, well, yes."
"She must have felt lonely sometimes?"
Laurence Brown did not answer. He
passed his tongue over his dry lips.
"To have a companion of more or less
her own age living here must have been
agreeable to her?"
"I -- no, not at all -- I mean -- I don't
know."
"It seems to me quite natural that an
attachment should have sprung up between
you."
The young man protested vehemently.
"It didn't! It wasn't! Nothing of the kind!
I know what you're thinking, but it wasn't
so! Mrs. Leonides was very kind to me
always and I had the greatest -- the greatest
respect for her -- but nothing more --
nothing more, I do assure you. It's monstrous
to suggest things of that kind! Monstrous!
I wouldn't kill anybody -- or tamper
with bottles -- or anything like that. I'm
very sensitive and highly strung. I -- the
very idea of killing is a nightmare to me --
they quite understood that at the tribunal
-- I have religious objections to killing. I
did hospital work instead -- stoking boilers
-- terribly heavy work -- I couldn't go on
with it -- but they let me take up educational
work. I have done my best here with
Eustace and with Josephine -- a very
int
elligent child, but difficult. And everybody
has been most kind to me -- Mr.
Leonides and Mrs. Leonides and Miss de
Haviland. And now this awful thing happens.
... And you suspect me -- me --
of murder!"
Inspector Taverner looked at him with a
slow appraising interest.
"I haven't said so," he remarked.
"But you think so! I know you think so!
They all think so! They look at me. I -- I
can't go on talking to you. I'm not well."
He hurried out of the room. Taverner
turned his head slowly to look at me.
"Well, what do you think of him?"
"He's scared stiff."
"Yes, I know, but is he a murderer?"
"If you ask me," said Sergeant Lamb, "he'd never have had the nerve."
"He'd never have bashed anyone on the
head, or shot off a pistol," agreed the Chief
Inspector, "But in this particular crime
what is there to do? Just monkey about
with a couple of bottles. . . . Just help a
very old man out of the world in a comparatively
painless manner."
"Practically euthanasia," said the Sergeant.
"And then, perhaps, after a decent interval, marriage with a woman who inherits a
hundred thousand pounds free of legacy
duty, who already has about the same
amount settled upon her, and who has in
addition pearls and rubies and emeralds the
size of what's-its-name eggs!
"Ah well --" Taverner sighed. "It's all
theory and conjecture! I managed to scare
him all right, but that doesn't prove
anything. He's just as likely to be scared if
he's innocent. And anyway, I rather doubt
if he was the one actually to do it. More
likely to have been the woman -- only why
on earth didn't she throw away the insulin
bottle, or rinse it out?" He turned to the
Sergeant. "No evidence from the servants
about any goings on?"
"The parlourmaid says they're sweet on
each other."
"What grounds?"
"The way he looks at her when she pours
out his coffee."
"Fat lot of good that would be in a court
of law! Definitely no carryings on?"
"Not that anybody's seen."
"I bet they would have seen, too, if there
had been anything to see. You know I'm
beginning to believe there really is nothing
between them." He looked at me. "Go back
and talk to her. I'd like your impression of
her."
I went half reluctantly, yet I was interested.
Nine
I found Brenda Leonides sitting exactly
where I had left her. She looked up sharply
as I entered.
p"Where's Inspector Taverner. Is he coming
back?" ?;i
"Not just yet."
"Who are you?"
At last I had been asked the question
that I had been expecting all the morning.
I answered it with reasonable truth.
"I'm connected with the police, but I'm
also a friend of the family."
"The family! Beasts! I hate them all."
She looked at me, her mouth working.
She looked sullen and frightened and
angry.
"They've been beastly to me always --
always. From the very first. Why shouldn't
I marry their precious father? What did it
matter to them? They'd all got loads of
nioney. He gave it to them. They wouldn't
have had the brains to make any for
themselves!"
She went on:
"Why shouldn't a man marry again -- j
even if he is a bit old? And he wasn't really
old at all -- not in himself. I was very fond I
of him. I was fond of him." She looked at me
defiantly.
"I see," I said. "I see."
"I suppose you don't believe that -- but
it's true. I was sick of men. I wanted to
have a home -- I wanted someone to make
a fuss of me and say nice things to me.
Aristide said lovely things to me -- and he
could make you laugh -- and he was clever.
He thought up all sorts of smart ways to
get round all these silly regulations. He was very very clever. I'm not glad he's dead.
I'm sorry."
She leaned back on the sofa. She had
rather a wide mouth, it curled up sideways
in a queer sleepy smile.
"I've been happy here. I've been safe. I
went to all those posh dressmakers -- the
ones I'd read about. I was as good as
anybody. And Aristide gave me lovely
things." She stretched out a hand looking
at the ruby on it.
J
Just for a moment I saw the hand and
arm like an outstretched cat's claw, and
heard her voice as a purr. She was still
smiling to herself.
"What's wrong with that?" she demanded.
"I was nice to him. I made him
happy." She leaned forward. "Do you know
how I met him?"
She went on without waiting for an
answer.
"It was in the Gay Shamrock. He'd
ordered scrambled eggs on toast and when
I brought them to him I was crying. 'Sit
down,' he said, 'and tell me what's the
matter.' 'Oh, I couldn't,' I said. 'I'd get
the sack if I did a thing like that.' 'No, you
won't,' he said, 'I own this place.' I looked
at him then. Such an odd little old man he
was, I thought at first -- but he'd got a
sort of power. I told him all about it. ...
You'll have heard about it all from them, I
expect -- making out I was a regular bad
lot -- but I wasn't. I was brought up very
carefully. We had a shop -- a very high
class shop -- art needlework. I was never
the sort of girl who had a lot of boy friends
or made herself cheap. But Terry was