Envious Casca (16 page)

"What's he like?" demanded Hemingway.

"Wiry little chap, about thirty-five or six, I'd say. Bit scared of me, he was, but he spoke out quite honest and aboveboard, and didn't try to throw suspicion on to anyone - except Mr. Roydon, maybe, though he was only telling me what it was his duty to, after all."

"What about the butler?"

"I'd say he was all right. Very starchy he is, but not above putting his ear to keyholes. He doesn't like Mr. Stephen, but that's nothing. He's been some time with Mr. Herriard."

"Might be coming in for a legacy, of course," said the Chief Constable. "He'd hardly commit a murder for it, though. Not a man like Sturry. Besides -" He paused, frowning, and then said, shooting a look at Hemingway from under his brows: "Not the point. I told you this was the devil of a case, Inspector. The suspects aren't worrying me: it's how the deuce the murder was committed at all.

"What, you aren't going to tell me this is one of these locked-door cases you read about, sir?" exclaimed Hemingway incredulously.

"It is, just that. Now, you listen to the facts as we know them! Roydon read his play to the rest of the house-party after tea yesterday. It ended in a general row; the party split up, and went off upstairs to change for dinner, leaving Miss Clare in the library, and Joseph Herriard trying to smooth his brother down in the drawing-room. Nat then went up to his room, still furious. Miss Clare, who came out of the library just as he was going upstairs, heard him slam his bedroom door. She and Joseph then went up together. They were the last people except the murderer, of course - to see Nat alive. Some time between then, which must have been between seven thirty and eight, and when the party gathered in the drawing-room again for cocktails, Nat was stabbed to death in his bedroom. When he didn't join the party, Joseph went up to tell him they were all waiting for him. He found Ford outside Nat's door, pretty worried at getting no answer to his knocking. The door was locked, and when Ford and Stephen Herriard forced the lock, Nat was lying dead on the floor, with the windows latched securely, both the door into his bedroom and that from his bathroom on to the upper hall locked on the inside, and only the ventilator above the bathroom window open."

"What kind of a ventilator?" asked Hemingway.

"The ordinary sort, opening outwards, which you often get above a casement-window."

"Big enough for anyone to get in through it?"

The Chief Constable looked at Inspector Colwall, who said slowly: "Well; it is, and it isn't, if you take my meaning. A man would have to be pretty small to do it, and, what's more, he'd need to be clever. It isn't as though the room's on the ground-floor, you see. What with having to climb up to it, and then squirm in without making any noise - well, I don't see how it could have been done, I'm bound to confess. Nor I couldn't discover any signs of footprints on the sill, but you can't go by that entirely, for it was snowing hard all yesterday evening, and they might easily have been covered up."

"Any finger-prints?"

"Only on the insides of the windows, and they were Ford's, just as you'd expect. It was he who shut the windows after tea, and drew the curtains."

"What about the door-keys?"

"That's just it," said the Major. "We've had them carefully examined, and we can't detect any of the scratches you'd expect to find if they'd been turned in the locks from outside."

"That's queer," said Hemingway, with the bird-like look in his eye which his Sergeant knew betokened lively interest. "Sounds like a classy case, after all. Any signs of a struggle in the room, sir?"

"None whatsoever."

"Looks as though he wasn't expecting trouble from his visitor, then. Those the photographs, sir? Thank you."

He considered them for a moment or two, and remarked: "Still in his day-clothes."

"Yes; there were no signs that he'd started to change. Ford had prepared his bath, and laid out his dinnerjacket and things."

"He didn't have this Ford in to help him dress?"

"Apparently he did sometimes, but not always. He rang if he wanted Ford."

"Oh! Weapon?"

"The doctors are agreed that the blow was struck with a thin, sharp instrument, probably a knife. You'll see the position of the wound. There was scarcely any external bleeding, but death, I'm informed, must have followed within a very few minutes."

"I see, sir. Weapon not found?"

"Not so far. But to my mind it hasn't been looked for," said the Major, casting a severe glance towards Inspector Colwall.

The Inspector reddened "It was looked for in the deceased's room, sir, but you know as well as I do that it's a very big house, and what with that, and the number of people all staying there, with their baggage - well, it's a tall order to find the weapon, and I didn't like to turn the place upside-down."

The Major looked unconvinced, but Hemingway said: "No, you'd have been at it all night and half today, I daresay."

"Well, that's where it is," said Colwall gratefully.

"I don't know that the weapon's going to interest me much," pursued Hemingway. "What with all these thrillers that get written nowadays by people who ought to know better than to go putting ideas into criminals' heads, there's no chance of any murderer forgetting to wipe off his finger-prints. Sickening, I call it. Now, how do you figure the murderer got into that room, Inspector?"

Colwall shook his head. "It's got me beat. If there wasn't any hanky-panky with the key - and that's an expert's job, when you come to think of it - I don't see how anyone could have got in."

"No; but there's one piece of evidence we mustn't forget," interposed the Chief Constable. "Stephen Herriard's cigarette-case was found lying on the floor by the fire, half-hidden by an armchair."

"That doesn't look so good for Stephen Herriard," said Hemingway. "Does he own it?"

"Yes, he owned it, but Miss Clare deposed that he had given it to Miss Dean before he went up to change for dinner."

"What did she have to say to that?" asked Hemingway, addressing himself to Colwall.

Inspector Colwall sighed. "She had a lot to say, being one of those who can't give you a plain yes or no. Anyone would have thought she expected to be charged with having committed the murder, simply through admitting she'd had the case! In the end, she did say she'd had it, but she swore she never took it out of the drawing-room. Her theory is that Mr. Stephen himself must have picked it up, and I'm bound to say it's likely he did."

"What did he say?"

"He didn't say much," answered Colwall reflectively. "He didn't, so to speak, get much chance, for Miss Clare started in to tell Miss Dean off good and proper, and what with that, and Mr.. Joseph trying to make me believe the case might have slipped out of Mr. Stephen's pocket after the murder had been discovered, when he was bending over the body -"

"Could it?" interrupted Hemingway.

"Not a chance, seeing where it was found. Mr. Stephen saw that himself. If he'd been sitting in a chair by the fire, though, and took out his case for a cigarette, and put it back sort of careless, so that it didn't slip into his pocket, but fell into the chair instead, and maybe slid off when he got up - well, that might account for it."

"Sat down with his uncle for a chat and a quiet smoke, and then murdered him when he wasn't looking?" demanded Hemingway. "Cold-blooded chap he'd have to be!"

"He is," said the Major shortly. "Anyone will tell you that."

"That's right," agreed Colwall. "Cold as a fish, that's what he is. Why, from all I could see, he doesn't even care two pins for that girl of his! Didn't turn a hair when Miss Clare said that she'd had his cigarette-case. You don't catch him trying to shield anyone!"

"Well, that's a comfort, anyway," said Hemingway. "If there's one thing that gets my goat more than another, it's coming up against a man with a lot of silly, noble ideas in his head which don't do any good to anyone. Is that all the evidence we've got, Inspector?"

"Not quite, it isn't. One of the housemaids saw Miss Herriard coming away from her uncle's door in her dressing-gown. A bit after, the valet heard a footstep in the front hall, as he was coming up the backstairs. He just saw Mr. Roydon's door shut. But Mr. Roydon gave a perfectly reasonable explanation for that; and as for Miss Herriard, she made no bones about admitting she'd tried to get into her uncle's room, to have her row out with him. She says she found the door locked, and didn't get any answer to her knock."

"Didn't that strike her as funny?"

"It didn't strike anyone as funny. They all bear one another out that it was just like Mr. Herriard not to answer, if he was in a bad temper."

"It sounds like a nice family," remarked Hemingway. The Inspector permitted himself to smile. "It is that, and no mistake. You'll see!"

"Seems to me I'd better go up there as soon as I can," said Hemingway. "I'd like to have a word with the police surgeon, if you please, sir."

"Yes, of course. You'll want to see the finger-prints too, I daresay," said the Major, passing him on to Inspector Colwall.

"Half that gang up at the Manor," confided Colwall, as he closed the door of the Chief Constable's room, "will just about throw fits when they realise you're from Scotland Yard."

"Excitable people, are they?"

"I believe you! Miss Herriard's a real tragedy-queen, and Miss Dean's the sort who'd go off into hysterics for two pins."

"That's young Herriard's blonde, isn't it? I've got a fancy to meet her."

"You won't get anything out of her, not to rely on," Colwall said, staring.

"Ah, but I've always had a weakness for blondes!" Hemingway said.

Inspector Colwall looked at him suspiciously, but could not bring himself to believe that the good man from Scotland Yard was being flippant. "Well, you may be right," he said. "I wouldn't set any store by what she says myself. But of course I've never gone in for your branch of the service. Never had a fancy for it. I daresay it comes easy to you chaps, but if I had to spend many evenings like I did last night I should go potty. You don't know what you're up against with that crowd, Inspector."

"That's all right," said Hemingway cheerfully. "As long as there's one blonde I've no complaints coming."

There were, unknown to him, two blondes now awaiting him at Lexham Manor, Mrs. Dean having arrived in a hired car at an alarmingly early hour.

None of the inmates of the house had, from their appearances, enjoyed unbroken rest during the night. Valerie, indeed, declared that she had not once closed her eyes; and even Stephen seemed more than usually morose. The party met at the breakfast-table. Joseph, who came in last of all, greeted the company with a tremulous smile, and said: "Alas, that I can't wish you all a merry Christmas! Yet it seems unfriendly, and sad, doesn't it, to let this day pass without one word to mark its character?"

There was no immediate response to this. Finally, Valerie said: "It doesn't seem like Christmas, somehow."

"Personally," said Roydon, "I set no store by worn-out customs."

"If anyone is going to church," said Maud, apparently deaf to this remark, "Ledbury is bringing the car round at twenty minutes to eleven."

"I'm afraid none of us feels quite in the mood for our usual Christmas service," said Joseph gently. "But you must go, of course, if you wish to, my dear."

"I always go to church on Christmas Day," replied Maud. "And on Sundays, too."

"One had not realised that there were still people who did!" said Roydon, with the air of one interested in the habits of aborigines.

This was felt to be an observation in such bad taste that Mathilda at once offered to accompany Maud, and Stephen - although not going to these lengths - ranged himself on Maud's side by telling the dramatist to shut up, and get on with his breakfast.

"Hush, Stephen!" said Joseph, yet with a sympathetic gleam in his eye.

"You shut up too!" said Stephen. "We've listened to enough nauseating twaddle to last us for a fortnight. In case it interests anyone, Uncle Nat's solicitor is coming down here by the eleven-fifteen from Waterloo. If Ledbury is fetching you from church, Aunt Maud, you'll have to drive on to pick Blyth up at the station afterwards."

Maud showed herself perfectly ready to fall in with this plan, but Mottisfont, who had been making only the barest pretence of eating, said with a good deal of meaning: "Very high-handed! Let us hope that someone is not in for a disappointment."

Stephen showed his admirable teeth in a singularly disagreeable smile. "Is that meant for me?"

Mottisfont shrugged. "Oh, if the cap fits -!"

"For heaven's sake, Edgar!" interposed Joseph. "Surely if anyone has the right to object to Stephen's taking charge of things it is I!"

"Well, if I were you I wouldn't put up with it for a moment."

Joseph tried to exchange a smile with Stephen. "Ah, but I'm not a clever business man like you, Edgar! I'm only a muddleheaded old artist - if I may be so bold as to lay claim to that title - and Stephen knows well that I'm grateful to him for all that he's doing."

Paula, who had been crumbling a roll in glowering abstraction, intercepted the offensive reply which everyone felt to be hovering on Stephen's tongue by saying suddenly: "How long will it be before we get probate?"

Everyone was rather startled by this, and as no one else seemed inclined to answer her Joseph said: "My dear, I'm afraid we aren't thinking of such things just yet."

She cast him one of her scornful, impatient glances. "Well, I am. If Uncle Nat's left me the money he always said he would I shall put Wormwood on."

Roydon flushed, and muttered something unintelligible. Valerie said that she would make a point of going to see it. She gave it as her opinion that it would be marvellous. Mathilda hoped, privately, that this appreciation would in some measure compensate Roydon for the marked lack of enthusiasm displayed by everyone else. She rose from the table, and went away to smoke a cigarette in the library.

Here she was soon joined, rather to her annoyance, by Mottisfont, who, after remarking aimlessly that one missed one's morning paper, began to wander about the room, fidgeting with blind-cords, matchboxes, cushions, and anything else that came in the way of his unquiet hands.