“Well,” I began, “I looked for Constance, as I told you. But I didn’t see her. She gave me a present instead.”
“A present?” Uncle Freddie began to look uneasy.
“Her diaries.”
“Diaries? I never knew Constance kept a diary.” Freddie had again blushed red.
“Well, it’s more like a journal really. She didn’t write in it every day. I’ve been looking through them—and I’ve also been going through some of the other papers at Winterscombe. They made me think about the past. They raised questions. Questions I thought you might be able to answer.”
Freddie’s face had taken on a hunted look. Winnie was staring at the tray in front of her.
“What sort of questions?” Uncle Freddie asked, after a long pause.
“Well, mainly about her father’s death,” I began in a firm voice. An expression of immense relief came upon Uncle Freddie’s features.
“What, that? That was an age ago. Long before you were ever born. I can’t see how that could matter to you, Vicky.”
It was Winnie who asked me to explain, and so—in a careful and edited way—I did. Freddie and Winnie listened attentively. As soon as I mentioned the word
murder,
they both sat up very straight, then leaned forward with a keen professional look in the eyes. When I had finished, however, Winnie gave one of her snorts.
“Typical!” she said. “Absolutely typical. That woman likes to make a drama out of everything. If she ironed a shirt it would turn into a three-act tragedy. Murder? I’ve never heard such rubbish in all my life. I’ve heard that story hundreds of times. It’s perfectly simple. Her father was a bad egg. A very
shifty
type, and he suffered an unpleasant accident. That’s all there is to it. I should forget this at once, Victoria. It has absolutely
nothing
to do with you.”
Uncle Freddie seemed inclined to be more thoughtful. He drew a doodle on his blotting pad. He crossed it out.
“If she thinks it was murder,” he said eventually, in a slow voice, “then presumably there was a murderer. Is that the problem, Vicky?”
“Yes, it is,” I said, looking at my hands.
Should I risk it, or not
? I decided to risk it. I looked up at Uncle Freddie. “You see, Constance seems to think … it was my father.”
My father might have been dead for thirty years, but Freddie still loved him. He grew heated in his defense. Winnie—and I could not help noticing this, for it was unusual—was quieter. I had expected loud dismissals, more trumpetings on the subject of Constance’s unreliability. None came. It was then, I think, that I began to wonder for the first time if Winnie—such an impassioned champion of my mother, Jane—was perhaps less enamored of my father.
As Uncle Freddie drew to the end of his confident, rambling, but eloquent speech on his brother Acland’s behalf, Winnie stood.
“I am going to cook us some lunch,” she said briskly. “It’s one of Mrs. O’Brien’s days off. I shall do us something with fish.”
I, too, rose. “Winnie, I’m sorry. I’m keeping you both from your work. I’ll go now.”
“No, you won’t.” Winnie placed a large hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down in my chair. “You will talk this out with Freddie. The work can wait. This has obviously upset you. Now—you listen to Freddie, and he’ll sort it out. Your uncle, Victoria, is a
very
wise man.”
“Oh dear,” Uncle Freddie said when Winnie had left the room. “I’m afraid I’m not, Vicky. Not wise at all. I wish I were.” He looked very sad, even crestfallen. Because I felt sorry for him, I hit on a way that might help us both.
“You see, Freddie,” I said, “Constance never spells it out. Once, when her husband suggested to her that my father was involved, she denied it fiercely. But the more she denies it, the more afraid I am. I tell myself it must have been an accident—then the doubts creep back in. It’s like one of your books. I feel I have to prove my father’s innocence. I feel I have to solve it. And so I thought: What would Inspector Coote do in a case like this?”
Uncle Freddie brightened at once.
“If it
was
murder, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, well”—he rubbed his hands together—“now that’s interesting. What
would
he do? Well, he’d interview everyone who was there, of course, at that party. All the guests. All the family. All the servants.”
“And then?”
“He’d examine the question of timing very carefully. He’s a fiend for timing.”
“And after that?”
“You know his watchwords, Vicky. M.O.C. Motive. Opportunity. Character. Those are the key things.
Cut bono,
Vicky—that’s the thing you must never forget.”
“Cut bono?”
“Literally, ‘to whom the good?’ In this context, who benefits?” Uncle Freddie, launched now, gave a broad smile.
“In your books, Uncle Freddie, all the suspects benefit—that’s what makes it so hard.”
“Ah, of course, red herrings!” Uncle Freddie chortled. Then he frowned. “But in this case, looking at it purely speculatively, no one benefited, as far as I can see. Absolutely no one.”
“Freddie, that’s not true,” I said gently. “I know some of what happened. There
were
people who might have wanted Shawcross out of the way. My grandfather, for instance. Wasn’t he jealous?”
“Of Shawcross?” Freddie began to look evasive. “Maybe.”
“And my father. He obviously resented Shawcross. I think he hated him—”
“It’s possible.” Freddie waved his hands about. “But you don’t want to exaggerate.
Hate
is a strong word. My mother … Lots of married women had these special friends then. No one thought much about it. Acland never liked Shawcross, that’s true—but then, none of us did. I couldn’t stand him. And I didn’t murder him, if that’s what you’re thinking!”
“Of course not. But, Freddie—”
“If you look at it purely from the point of view of a detective story”—Freddie was beginning to cheer up again—“and now I think about it, it might make quite a good plot: the motiveless murder! Yes, I like that! Then you’d have to say: who hated, but hid that hate? Was there someone in the house that night who had a secret link with him—a financial one, perhaps? Maybe one of the guests
knew
Shawcross already? And then—this is important—you’d have to consider: who was strong enough? Shawcross was reasonably fit. You couldn’t just follow him into the woods and say: ‘Here’s a trap; would you mind stepping into it?’ He’d have to be pushed. Or threatened. Hmmm. Interesting.”
This seemed to me to be leading us back toward my father—which was not what I wanted. I leaned forward.
“Uncle Freddie. If this upsets you, stop me. But you see, I know about Boy. I know what Boy told Steenie the day he killed himself. And I know it can’t have been true, because Boy was with Constance. But in that case, who took those Purdey shotguns? Someone did. They were missing by the end of dinner—and that must be true. It’s in my mother’s diaries.”
Freddie sighed.
“Poor Boy.” He shook his head. “I still think of him, you know. He was a good sort. Wouldn’t have hurt a fly …” He hesitated. “If it helps, I don’t know who took the guns. But I do know who put them back. It was my father.”
“Denton? Are you sure? Freddie—”
“I remember it very well. I was passing the gun room and I saw him lock them back in their case. Shawcross wasn’t even dead. He was upstairs, dying. I thought it was odd—what was father doing with Boy’s guns? Of course”—he brightened again—“that makes my father a prime suspect. Is that what you’re thinking? Well, I’m afraid you’re wrong. He couldn’t have done it. At least, I don’t
think
he could have done it.”
“Why not, Uncle Freddie?”
“Because I saw him, you see—the night of the comet. He wasn’t wandering ’round the woods after Shawcross. He was in the house.”
“In the house—how do you know, Freddie?”
Freddie blushed. “Well, the thing is, that night … I drank rather too much. They let me stay behind for the port—it was the first time I’d done that. I had three glasses. Then I had some champagne. By the time I went up to bed, I felt ghastly. I had this valet—forget his name now—”
“Tubbs. Arthur Tubbs.”
“That’s it! Clever of you.” Freddie beamed. “Well, I sent Arthur away. Then I felt too ill to undress. The room was going up and down—you know how it is. So I just flopped down on the bed. I fell asleep for a bit—but not for very long. When I woke up, I had a raging thirst. My head felt as if it’d been kicked by a horse. Port does that, you know. Far too acid. I never touch it now—”
“Freddie—”
“Sorry. Keep to the point. Anyway, I got up to drink some water. Walked about a bit. Then I thought some fresh air might help. So I went downstairs. I went out on the terrace, took some deep breaths. That seemed to do the trick. Most people were in bed by then, but there were still lights in the billiard room. I could hear voices. So I toddled along in there. Wanted to be one of the men, I suppose—I was only fifteen then. Anyway, in I went—”
“And your father was there?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure he was.” Freddie frowned. “You see, it’s so long ago—and at the time it didn’t seem important, who was there and who wasn’t. Also I was still a bit tipsy. The room was full of cigar smoke. There was quite a crowd in there—my father’s cronies. They used to like to stay up. Let me see—there was a man called Peel, Richard Peel. He was there—I remember that. And there was another chap, something to do with the City—”
“George Heyward-West?”
“That’s right. I say, you have gone into this, haven’t you? George Heyward-West, that’s the man. I remember him because he and Montague Stern were having some kind of contest. They were both very good at billiards, and I watched them play for a bit—”
“Montague Stern? He was there? Freddie, he can’t have been—”
“Why not?” Freddie began to look irritated. “He certainly was. It was the first time I met him. I remember it distinctly. He and Heyward-West were getting on like a house on fire. Stern used to wear these terrible waistcoats, and he was wearing one that night. Crimson, with gold embroidery. They’d both taken off their jackets and rolled back their sleeves, and—”
“Freddie, what time was this?”
“Heavens, I don’t know. I’ve no idea. Two? Three? Pretty late. Anyway, the point is, my father was there too. He was sitting over in the corner, in a wing chair. Every so often he’d wake up; then he’d go back to sleep.” Freddie stopped. “I don’t remember it all too clearly. There were a lot of people in there. At some point someone gave me another drink, and I could see what they all thought, so I thought,
I’ll jolly well show them
—and I drank it. It was whisky. I’d never had whisky before. It was definitely a mistake. I remember, Acland had just given me one of his cigarettes—I used to pinch them from his room sometimes, I’m afraid. Anyway, he’d just given me one, then I drank the whisky, and then I thought:
Oh, God, I’m going to be sick.
Acland got me back to my room. Somehow. And the funny thing is, I used to think Boy helped him. Except Boy wasn’t there, of course, so it must have been someone else. George Heyward-West, probably. He was a nice chap. Always used to give me a tip when he stayed—never less than a sovereign …”
Freddie stared off into the middle distance. He sighed. A silence fell.
I considered all this. I considered the fact that if this were true, and not just a fabrication of my uncle Freddie’s well-trained and comfortable memory, Montague Stern had not remained with Maud; he had been downstairs. Denton had been downstairs. Most important of all,
my father
had been downstairs. The timing might be vague (I was sure it would not have satisfied Inspector Coote) but my father had been there. No one could commit murder and then return to a house and play billiards, surely?
I stared past my uncle at the view from the window: an ordinary street, an ordinary day. I felt the greatest relief. Of course the death of Shawcross was an accident—and I should never have doubted that. Constance had been unbalancing me, I thought, with her fictions.
I think Uncle Freddie must have guessed what I thought, because he smiled. He, too, became brisk and sensible.
“In any case,” he said, “if you go back to where we were—if you think of it from Inspector Coote’s point of view—you can see it can’t have been murder, anyway. It’s obvious. It’s impossible.”
“Why, Uncle Freddie?”
“Think. Shawcross
didn’t die
—not immediately. It took three days. Now, as it happens, he couldn’t speak during that time—he was too ill. But a would-be murderer couldn’t have known that. After all, Shawcross might have been found earlier. He might not have been so badly injured. He might have been able to speak—and then he would have identified his killer! It’s a very chancy way to bump someone off. The murderer would have to be sure he couldn’t be recognized—and that’s impossible. There was a moon that night. There would have been a struggle.” He paused. He patted my hand. “You see? You’re upsetting yourself about nothing, you know. You really are. I’ve had fifty-eight years to think about this, and I know I’m right. An accident—and if Constance is suggesting otherwise, I’d ignore it.” He hesitated, his expression kind but veiled. “She’s not the best person to trust, you know. She … likes to make trouble. You know that.”
Winnie had come in during the latter part of this speech. She brought with her a tray. We ate an excellent lunch. We discussed recipes and cooking methods. Once or twice I tried to bring the conversation around to 1930, my christening, and the mysterious quarrel between Constance and my parents, but Freddie and Winnie seemed unwilling to take the bait, and having risked the question of Shawcross earlier, I had no wish to upset them more.
Some weeks after this lunch, a period during which there were great changes in my life, my uncle Freddie began a detective story based on that accident in 1910. He called it
Inclined to Murder.
It was to become one of his greatest successes, being reprinted many times. It is still in print now, and you could read it. You would find the setting, and many of the characters, recognizable. The solution Uncle Freddie reached was not my solution—but then, his version was fiction, whereas by that time mine was fact.