Nigel overheard Graham mutter to Rebecca: “Giving her the full treatment, what?” He had been aware, at Dr. Piers Loudron’s entrance, of a sudden tension in the room—a tension he presumed at the time to come from the other Loudrons’ unconscious screwing of themselves up to resist the strong personality of their father.
After an exchange of compliments with Clare, their host turned to Nigel. “And your name is not unfamiliar to me either. Welcome to my house. I am delighted that we are to be neighbours. You must forgive me, you and Miss Massinger, for not being here to receive you. You will understand what kept me, Strangeways, when I tell you that I was writing and quite lost my sense of time.”
“Writing, Papa?” Rebecca almost squeaked. “What ever do you mean?”
“I should have thought the expression was not unintelligible.” Sheathing his claws again, the old man turned to his guests. “I have begun to keep a diary. A personal diary. I have never done so since I was a child; and now I’m in my second childhood, the wheel has come full circle.” He gave Clare a wickedly enchanting smile. “I shall have a lot to write in it to-morrow. My first meeting with the great Clare Massinger. The table-talk of that distinguished expert, Nigel Strangeways.”
“Oh? What’s he an expert in, Papa?” Rebecca blurted.
Her father said, in a velvety tone, “All in good time, Becky. What is table-talk without a table? You know, if I die of starvation to-night, I shall not be able to keep up my diary.”
Rebecca Loudron glared at him sulkily. “It only needs dishing up. But I can take a hint.” She went out, breathing hard.
The awkward silence was broken by James. “But why have you started keeping a diary, Father? I don’t see the point.”
“My dear boy, at my age, and when one’s tenure of life is unlikely to be long protracted, one feels the need, not exactly—” he gestured with a delicate white hand—“not exactly for confession, but for the drawing-up of a balance sheet.”
“Nonsense, Father,” James broke in; “you’re good for another twenty years. Well, ten years at least.”
“Thank you, dear boy, for your prognosis. It is meant well, I am sure. But prognosis was never your strongest point.”
James Loudron’s childishly disgruntled expression made him look more than ever like his sister. The old man, thought Nigel, must be Jewish: the cutting, snubbing manner, the opulent verbiage, the autocratic air of one who is beyond challenge the head of his tribe: he’s an old show-off too: but excellent company—if you’re not a member of his family.
“Yes,” Dr. Piers was saying to Clare, “my diary is giving me quite a new interest in life. It may even prolong it. Who knows?”
“I shouldn’t bank on that,” remarked Graham Loudron, in an unexpectedly controversial tone.
“Oh, I’m not banking on it, Graham. But why do you say——?”
A scream from below stairs, which startled Clare, proved to be Rebecca Loudron announcing dinner.
“Why on earth can’t we have a gong?” asked James.
“Gongs,” his father answered, “are for butlers or suburban householders.”
“Isn’t S.E. 10 suburban enough for a gong?” murmured Graham.
“The clamorous harbinger of victuals,” quoted Dr. Piers. “Will you come, Miss Massinger?”
The dining-room would certainly not have disgraced a butler, its round rosewood table set with Georgian silver, the panelled walls painted the colour of eucalyptus leaf: on the wall behind Dr. Piers hung an oil of a severe-looking raw-boned lady, evidently the mother of James and Rebecca—Nigel caught James glancing at it with an expression which gave life to his heavy face, while Graham went into the adjoining kitchen to help Rebecca with the dishes.
She was certainly a first-class cook. After the œuf mimosa, they ate a delicious coq au vin. Dr. Piers, in a manner which suggested that he normally left such duties to others but was doing it as a mark of special favour for her, had poured Clare a glass of wine, then resigned the decanter to James.
“Bonnes Mares, isn’t it?” said Clare. “My favourite Burgundy. Aren’t we in luck to-night?”
“So, Miss Massinger?—you’re quite right. But what expertise!”
Rebecca, coming in from the kitchen with her own plate, and having only caught the tail-end of these exchanges, said:
“Now you must tell us, Mr. Strangeways, what you’re an expert at. I’m sure I ought to know, but——”
He’s an expert,” announced their host, “in criminology.”
“You mean he writes books about murders?”
“No. He catches murderers,” Dr. Piers said, with a flatness of statement far removed from his normal style.
There was a second or two of absolute silence. Then Rebecca, staring at Nigel in consternation or incredulity, came out with “You catch?—Are you at Scotland Yard?”
“No. But I have friends there.”
“You mean, you’re a sort of private detective?” asked James.
“Sort of.”
“But isn’t this exciting!” Rebecca gasped. “Do tell us how you work.”
Nigel had opened his mouth to reply, when he perceived that Clare, affected perhaps by the tension in this household of which he himself had been intermittently aware, was about to have one of her occasional fits of going too far.
“It’s really quite simple,” she began, her tone crystal clear and twinkling like the drops on a chandelier. “One of Nigel’s uncles was an assistant-commissioner at Scotland Yard—he got Nigel to help unofficially over one or two cases. That’s how it started—that, and Nigel’s passion for poking his nose into other people’s affairs, particularly the unsavoury ones. No one can compete with the C.I.D. at collecting and sifting evidence: their machine is about as good as any could be for dealing with the ordinary gamut of crime. But now and then something turns up which needs inside knowledge—some non-professional crime, so to speak. Then Nigel insinuates himself into the confidence of the suspects—they’ve often no notion what a viper they’ve taken into their bosom until it’s too late. He worms his way along, deeper and deeper through the secret passages of people’s lives——”
“Your simile is quite revolting,” said Nigel.
“Talking of secret passages,” Rebecca put in hurriedly, “did you know there are supposed to be a lot in Greenwich, under the park?”
James said, “Yes, when Harold and I were kids, we spent hours down in the cellars here, tapping the walls to see if we could find the entrance to one of the passages. We never did, though.”
“Reverting to the Strangeways method,” said Clare, “ it has to be mentioned that he does rather attract crime: things tend to happen in his vicinity. I suppose it’s quite natural, when—good God, what’s that?”
A harsh, strangulated howl tore the air.
“Adiposity,” said James.
“Acidity, I think,” said Rebecca, giggling;
“I beg your pardon?”
“There’s a line of coastal ships that come into Deptford Creek,” James explained. “They all have those peculiar sirens, and names ending in ity. One is called Argosity, for instance.”
“And another Aridity. Fancy a ship being called Aridity!”
“That’s because it carries sand, no doubt—to the cement works.”
“James used to invent absurd names for them, to amuse me when I was little,” Rebecca added.
“And they still amuse you, it seems,” said Dr. Piers Loudron.
His daughter’s heavy face, which had been animated for a few moments, looked quenched again. There was an uncomfortable silence. Graham Loudron switched his curiously intent gaze from Clare to Nigel.
“But why do, you do it?” he asked.
“Criminal investigation, you mean?”
“Yes. Do you have noble ideas about justice and retribution and all that? Do you see yourself as a hound of heaven tracking down the wrongdoer?”
“No,” Nigel equably replied. “It’s chiefly that I’m curious
about people—particularly the pathological states of mind.”
“You think you can really understand them, without sharing them—those states of mind?”
“Up to a point. Also, it’s just as well that murderers shouldn’t be allowed to indulge in their pastime. Or don’t you agree?” Nigel added, seeing that Graham was determined to be controversial.
“So you are, in fact, high-minded about it,” said the young man, the sneer in his tone contrasting oddly with the serious, almost deferential expression on his face. “I can’t understand why you don’t leave this sort of dirty work to the police. They are at least paid for it.”
“Oh, so am I. I charge high fees.”
“So you should”—Graham was openly malicious now—“I agree with Shaw that men who clean out sewers should get the highest wages in the country.”
“So do I,” remarked Clare. “And what are you doing, Mr. Loudron, to implement this excellent principle?”
“My brother preaches. He leaves practice to the lower grades of humanity,” said James, who had taken a second helping of each course.
“I think the fog is getting into our brains,” said Dr. Piers mildly. Nigel had noticed him glancing vivaciously at the disputants during these exchanges: the old man seemed indulgent towards his adopted son—to be tacitly encouraging Graham, almost, in his provocative remarks—with a favouritism that must have been galling to James and Rebecca. “Wouldn’t you say, Miss Massinger, that natural talent and acquired skills should be rewarded more highly than the sort of mechanical labour which any moron can perform?”
“Cooking, for instance,” interrupted Graham Loudron. “Look at Becky’s talent and skill. Oughtn’t we to pay her more?”
“Oh, really!” James broke out indignantly. “This conversation is ridiculous.”
“I don’t agree,” said Graham. “I’m being perfectly logical.”
“Well then, you have a tremendous talent for doing damn-all—how much ought you to be paid for——?”
“Children, children!” their father said. “You’ll be giving our guests the impression that they are dining in the nursery. Let’s go upstairs now. Harold and his wife are coming in after dinner, so you’ll have an opportunity of meeting the rest of my quarrelsome family, Miss Massinger. Sharon is quite a beauty: good bone: her head might interest you.”
His own, thought Clare, as they sat in the drawing-room, is interesting enough: but in my medium I could never do justice to the most interesting thing about it—the swift, unpredictable alternations of vivacity and melancholy: when he withdraws into himself, it is like the sun going in, the whole room seems overcast. Of course, he’s an old man, frail. These withdrawals are a way he conserves his energy? Well, partly that; but also a way of impressing his personality on us, of dominating the company without expending effort? Because he’s a bit of a domestic pasha all right. Unobtrusively Clare studied Dr. Piers’s face, steeped just now in melancholy, the square, thin mouth turned down at the corners in an expression of bitter, tragic acceptance. For a moment she seemed to be looking at his death mask.
The next moment, Sharon and Harold Loudron entering, Dr. Piers was all animation again. He fussed over his daughter-in-law, led her to a chair by the fire, introduced her to Clare and Nigel, teased her about a new sable tie she was wearing.
“What did I tell you, Miss Massinger?” he said, with a kind of proprietorial gaiety. “Beautiful bone, eh?” He patted Sharon’s cheek.
“You’re a very susceptible, flattering old man,” she coolly remarked, snatching a cigarette from a box, her hand shaking as she put a match to it. “B’rrh, it’s cold outside. I’ve swallowed about a hundred cubic feet of fog walking here.”
“You smoke too much, my dear. And eat too little,” said Dr. Piers, giving her a clinical scrutiny.
“I have to keep my figure. Never know when I shan’t need it again. Harold’s——”
“Now, darling! Please,” said her husband quickly. “That can keep.”
Harold Loudron is like a shadow of his father, thought Nigel; a silhouette. The same features, but no depth to them. A smallish, spruce, upright figure. Uxorious, too—hovering over that red-headed young harpy as if she were a prize orchid. Not that, in her febrile way, she isn’t highly attractive. He could still feel the hot, hard, rubbery texture of her small hand when they were introduced: it felt like an animal’s paw; and there was a glitter in her green eyes—the eyes which now, glancing to and fro over the others as she talked, noticeably missed out those of Graham Loudron, though his were fastened upon her.
Presently, getting into conversation with Harold, Nigel found to his surprise that this rather colourless young business-man had another ruling passion beside his wife. He was a river enthusiast. He and Sharon lived in one of several houses which his mother had bought before the war. It was right on the river wall, beyond the Greenwich power station. “At high tide, I could dive straight into eight feet of water out of our dining-room window. Only I’d be certain to get typhoid, Papa says—the Thames is absolutely foul, you know, in this reach.”
The house had been badly shaken by bombing, but they had reconditioned it; and Harold had even bought an old sprit-sail barge, which he moored at a wharf adjoining the house.
“But you can’t sail her single-handed, surely?” said Nigel.
“No. Afraid not. She’s on the mud now.” Harold’s face, suddenly overcast with melancholy, took on a still closer resemblance to his father’s, “I used to get friends down. And Sharon was keen at first. But . . . I’ve got a launch now: Rather a beauty——“he came out with a flood of technical detail. “But it’s not the same as sail.”
“Couldn’t you have a sailing dinghy, or a little yawl—something like that?”
“Current’s too strong. We get a four-knot tide round the Isle of Dogs, you know. Fierce. You need a strong wind to move against it.”
He went on to talk interestingly about the history of the river. But Nigel felt that it was all rather mechanical: half Harold’s mind seemed to be elsewhere, and his eyes kept restlessly glancing off to where his father was deep in conversation with Clare and Sharon. It was as if Harold were doing calculations in his head while he talked.
Rising, Sharon walked gracefully over. “General post,” she said to her husband. “Jehovah commands. You go and exercise your charms on Miss Massinger. Not,” she added after Harold had obediently moved across, “not that the poor sweet can compete with his aged parent. Piers is a real killer, you know: twenty years ago none of us would have been safe from him.”
Sharon had lowered her voice to a husky murmur. Disposing herself on the sofa beside Nigel, she contrived to give a strong impression that she was getting into bed with him. Her green eyes, gazing into his, had a moony, swimming look. “I’ve been hearing all about you from Piers. Tell me, how many secret passages have you found to-night?”
Damn and blast Clare, thought Nigel. He said, “Give me time. I’ve only been here a couple of hours.”
“You wait. We’re honeycombed with them.”
“Like a Compton-Burnett family?”
“Probably. But a book is a thing I never read. Well then, tell me, who is the most interesting person in this room?”
“Interesting how?”
“Interesting to you as a student of crime.”
Nigel had a disconcerting habit of taking such gambits more seriously than they were offered. “Well,” he said briskly, allowing his pale blue eyes to rest upon the girl’s, “there’s you. I’d say you would do almost anything for a kick.”
“Almost?” Her green eyes swooned over him.
“What are you trying just now? Larceny? Blackmail? Drugs? Piracy? Murder?”
At one of these words, Sharon’s eyes flickered as if the current had been momentarily cut off. “Well, I must say! I’m not sure you’re very nice after all.”
“But of course if you ask me which of the present company is potentially the most delinquent, I’d——”
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Nigel’s revelations were cut short by a loud tattoo on the front-door knocker.
“Oh hell!” exclaimed James Loudron. “A call, I suppose.”
“It may be Walter. He said he might drop in.” Rebecca glanced defiantly at her father as she hurried to the door. His elegant white hand set down the coffee cup trembling.
“That mountebank!” he exclaimed. “So now he’s started inviting himself to my house.” But Rebecca was already out of the room.
“Another skeleton for you,” whispered Sharon to Nigel. “But he won’t stay in the cupboard. Becky’s sweet on him. It’s her maternal instinct. He’s Pop’s uttermost bête noire. Walt Barn. He paints.”
“Mountebank” seemed an all too apt description of the young man who now entered, with the air of one who at any moment might do a double backward somersault. He was little more than five feet high: his extremely broad and powerful-looking shoulders were surmounted by a small, quite round head, a fringe of hair low over the forehead. He had a snub nose, and blue eyes which danced with intelligence or mischief, yet looked incorruptibly innocent. Whether or no he knew there would be a dinner party on to-night, he had made no concessions to Greenwich high-life: he wore a thick, scarlet fisherman’s sweater and paint-stained blue corduroys.
After offering his hand to Dr. Piers, who ignored it, he drew up all his sixty inches in front of the fire-place and surveyed the company.
“Ha!” he cried. “All the beauty and some of the brains of Greenwich assembled. Sharon”—he bobbed at her—“our well-known ex-yachtswoman and ex-commodore of the flouncing flotilla of ex-models. Hiya, James, you earnest old quack! Hysterectomies coming along nicely? And Harold—big-deal Harold, the terror of Mincepudding Lane. And who do I see cowering in the corner over there? None other than our inscrutable Graham, the beatest beat on the South Bank.”
“Do stop showing off, Walt,” said Rebecca. “You haven’t met Miss Clare Massinger.”
“Only in the spirit,” Walter Barn went down on his hunkers in front of Clare, hands on knees. “What d’ya love?” he inquired.