Crooked House

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