Envious Casca (22 page)

"I suppose it would," agreed Joseph unhappily. "But you can't mean to suggest that Stephen - Oh no, no! I won't believe such a horrible thing!"

"I'm not suggesting anything, sir; I'm only trying to get at the truth."

Joseph wrung his hands in one of his agitated gestures. "Ah, you think me a foolish old fellow, but I can't but see what you suspect! I know that things do look black against my nephew, but I for one am convinced that the murder wasn't committed by anyone under this roof!"

"How's that, sir? What reason have you to think that?" asked the Inspector quickly.

"Sometimes," answered Joseph, "intuition proves to be sounder than reason, Inspector!"

"I'll have to take your word for that, sir," replied the disillusioned Inspector. "I haven't found it so myself. Of course, that's not to say I won't."

"Try to keep an open mind!" Joseph begged.

"I'm paid to do that, sir," said Hemingway, somewhat acidly. "And now, if you don't mind, I'll finish what I have to do here with Mr. Blyth."

This was too pointed to be ignored. Joseph went away, his seraphic brow creased with worry. Blyth said, with a slight smile: "He means well, Inspector."

"Yes, that's a vice that makes more trouble than any other," said Hemingway. "If you ask me, there very likely wouldn't have been a murder at all if it hadn't been for him getting ideas about peace and goodwill, and assembling all these highly uncongenial people under the same roof at the same time."

"I fear you are a cynic, Inspector."

"You get to be in my profession," replied Hemingway.

The inspection of the rest of Nathaniel's papers did not take long, nor was anything of further interest discovered amongst them. The solicitor was soon at liberty to join the rest of the house-party in the library; and Hemingway went off in search of his Sergeant.

Ware met him in the hall, and looked a question.

"Nothing much," Hemingway said. "Young Stephen's the heir all right. You have any success?"

"Well, I can't say I have," Ware replied. "Can't get much out of the servants - much sense, I mean. But one thing struck me as a bit funny. I was having a look round, and went into the billiard-room, and I found an old lady there. Mrs. Joseph Herriard, I believe."

"I don't see anything funny about that."

"No, sir, but she was fair turning the room upsidedown, looking for something. I watched her for quite a minute before she saw me. One end of the room's fitted out like a small lounge, and she was looking under all the cushions, and running her hands down the sides of the chairs, as though she thought something might have slipped down between the upholstery. She gave a bit of a start when she saw me, but of course that's nothing in itself."

"Hunting for something, was she? Well, that might be interesting."

"Yes, that's what I thought, but when I asked her if she'd lost something I'm bound to say she didn't seem at all discomposed, as you might say. She said she'd lost her book."

"Well, I daresay she had, but I'd like to meet her," said Hemingway.

"She's still there, sir."

When Joseph had begun to dismantle the Christmas tree, he had had a small wooden tub brought into the billiard-room. It was half-full of tinsel decorations and crackers, and when the Sergeant showed Hemingway into the room, Maud was engaged in turning these over in her search for the Life of the Empress of Austria. She acknowledged the Inspector's arrival with a nod and a small smile. She seemed to think that the Sergeant had fetched him to assist her, for she thanked him for coming, and said that it was extraordinary how things could get mislaid.

"A book, is it, madam?" asked Hemingway.

"Yes, and it is a library book, so it must be found," said Maud. "Of course, I expect it will turn up, because things very often do, and in the most unexpected places."

"Such as in a tub full of Christmas decorations?" suggested Hemingway, with a quizzical look.

"You never know," said Maud vaguely. "I once mislaid a shoehorn for three days, and it was eventually found in a coal-scuttle, though how it came there I never could discover. I daresay you will be searching the house yourself, and if you should happen to come upon my book I should be very grateful if you would tell me. It is called the Life of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria. A most interesting character: really, I had no idea! It is most annoying that I should have lost it, because I hadn't finished it. She must have been very lovely, but I can't help feeling sorry for her husband. He seems to have been a handsome man when he was young, but of course he grew those whiskers in later life. And then so fat! Not that I think that excused her altogether. No, the book isn't here. So tiresome!"

She smiled, and nodded again, and went out of the room, returning, however, in a few moments to tell the Inspector not to make a special point of looking for the book, as she knew he had other things to think about.

The astonished Sergeant exchanged a glance with his superior, but Hemingway assured Maud that he would keep his eyes open.

"Well!" ejaculated the Sergeant, when Maud had gone away again. "What do you make of that?"

"I'd say she was looking for her book."

The Sergeant was disappointed. "It struck me she might be looking for the weapon that killed the old man. Seemed fishy to me."

"She wouldn't have had to look far," said the Inspector. "Not if it's in this room. What's wrong with your eyesight, my lad?"

The Sergeant blinked, and gazed about him. Hemingway pointed a finger at the wall above the fireplace. Flanking the head of an antlered deer were two old flintlock pistols, a pair of knives in ornate sheaths, and various other weapons, ranging from a Zulu knobkerrie to a seventeenth-century halberd.

"Just about as much gumption as the locals, that's what you've got!" said Hemingway scornfully. "Get up on a chair, and take a look at those two daggers! And don't go fingering them!"

Swallowing this insult, the Sergeant pulled a chair forward, and said that it was funny how you could miss a thing that was right under your nose.

"I don't know what you mean by "you"!" retorted Hemingway. "I know what I'd mean by it, but that's different. And funny isn't the word I'd use, either. Any dust on those daggers?"

The Sergeant, standing on the chair, reached up, leaning a hand against the wall to steady himself. "No. At least, yes: on the undersides," he said, peering at them.

"Both free from dust on the outside?"

"Pretty well. So's this pike-affair. Careful servants in this house. I expect they do 'em with one of those feather dusters on the end of a long stick."

"Never mind what they do them with! Hand those daggers down to me!"

The Sergeant obeyed, using his handkerchief. Hemingway took them, and closely scrutinised them. It was plain that the sheaths at least had not been taken down recently, since dust clung to the undersides, and a few wispy cobwebs on the wall were revealed by their removal. Indeed, the Sergeant, descending from his perch, and studying the knives, gave it as his opinion that neither had been handled.

"Take another look," advised Hemingway. "Notice anything about the hilts?"

The Sergeant glanced quickly at him, and then once more bent over the weapons. As Hemingway held them up the dust on them was clearly visible. Each sheath, where it had lain against the wall, was thinly coated with dust, and so was one hilt. The other hilt had no speck of dust on it, on either side.

The Sergeant drew in his breath. "My lord, Chief, you're quick!" he said respectfully.

"You can put this one back," said Hemingway, unmoved by the compliment, and handing him the knife with the dusty hilt. "It hasn't been touched. But this little fellow has been drawn out of its sheath very recently, or I'm a Dutchman!" He held it up to the light, closely inspecting the hilt for finger-prints. No smudge on its polished surface was visible to the naked eye, and he added disgustedly: "What's more, when the experts get on to it, they'll find that it's been carefully wiped. However, we won't take any chances. Lend me that handkerchief of yours, will you?"

The Sergeant gave it to him. Carefully grasping the base of the hilt between his finger and thumb through the folds of the linen, Hemingway drew the knife from the sheath. It slid easily, a thin blade which revealed a slight stain close to the hilt. The Sergeant pointed a finger at this, and Hemingway nodded. "Overlooked that, didn't he? Well, I fancy we have here the weapon that killed Nathaniel Herriard." Perceiving a look of elation on his subordinate's face, he added dampingly: "Not that it's likely to help us, but it's nice to know."

"I don't see why it shouldn't help us," objected Ware. "It proves the murder was an inside job, anyway."

"Well, if that's your idea of help, it isn't mine," said Hemingway. "Of course it was an inside job! And a nice, high-class bit of work too! There won't be any fingerprints on this. You have to hand it to our unknown friend. Thinks of everything. He chooses a weapon which nine people out of ten would stare at every day of their lives without attaching any importance to. He chooses a time when the house is full of visitors who all have their reasons for wanting old Herriard out of the way; and seizes the moment when everyone's dressing for dinner to stab his host, and restore the knife at his leisure. It's an education to have to do with this bird."

The Sergeant gazed meditatively up at the wall over the fireplace. "Yes, and what's more, he might have taken the knife at any time," he said. "There's no sign he took the sheath as well."

"There's every sign he didn't."

"That's what I mean. I daresay no one would have noticed if that knife had been taken out of the sheath quite a while before the murder was committed. It isn't even as if it was on a line with your eyes: you have to look up to catch sight of it."

"What's more important," said Hemingway, "is that it could have been put back at any time. After everyone had gone to bed, as like as not. So now perhaps you begin to see that the chances are that this nasty-looking dagger is going to rank as a matter of purely academic interest."

Chapter Twelve

The Inspector had barely packed the knife and its sheath away into a case when Sturry entered the room, and stood upon the threshold with an expression of lofty resignation on his face. Hemingway, no respecter of persons, said: "Well, what do you want?"

Sturry gave him a quelling look, and replied with meticulous politeness: "Mr. Joseph, Inspector, desired me to enquire whether you, and the Other Policeman, will be requiring luncheon. If this should be the case, a Cold Collation will be served in the morning-room."

"No, thanks," said Hemingway, who had no opinion of cold collations at midwinter.

Sturry bowed slightly. His arctic gaze took in the position of the chair which the Sergeant had used to enable him to reach the knives on the wall, and travelled upwards. He acknowledged the disappearance of one of the pair of knives by a pronounced elevation of the eyebrows, and moved forward to restore the chair to its place against the wall. He then plumped up a couple of cushions, looked with contempt at the partially dismantled Christmas tree, and at last withdrew.

The Sergeant, who had been watching him with considerable disfavour, said: "I don't like that chap."

"That's only inferiority complex," said Hemingway. "You didn't like being called the Other Policeman."

"Snooping round," said the Sergeant darkly. "He saw the knife had gone all right. He'll spread that bit of news round the house."

"Then we may get some interesting reactions," responded Hemingway. "Come on! We'll take the knife back to headquarters, and get a bit of dinner at the same time. I want to think."

He was unusually silent during the hot and substantial meal provided by the cook at the Blue Dog inn; and the Sergeant, respecting his preoccupation, made no attempt to converse with him. Only when the cheese was set before them did he venture to say: "I've been thinking about that weapon."

"I haven't," said Hemingway. "I've been thinking about that locked door."

"I don't seem to get any ideas about that," confessed the Sergeant, "The more I think about it the more senseless it seems."

"There must have been a reason for it," said Hemingway. "A pretty strong one, too. Whoever murdered Nathaniel Herriard, and locked the door behind him, was taking the hell of a chance of being caught in the act. He didn't do it for fun."

"No," agreed the Sergeant, thinking it over. "It looks as though you're right there. But what reason could he possibly have had?"

Hemingway did not answer. After a few moments, the Sergeant said slowly: "Supposing the murdered man didn't lock the door himself, in the first place? We've no proof that he did, after all. I was just wondering… If the murderer walked into the room, and locked the door behind him -"

"Old Herriard would have kicked up a rumpus."

"Not if it had been his nephew he wouldn't. He might have thought Stephen wanted to have a straight talk with him, without the valet's coming in to interrupt them."

"Well?" said Hemingway, showing a faint interest.

"Well, Stephen, or someone else, killed him. You remember the valet telling us that he came along, and tried the door, and found- it locked? Suppose the murderer was still in the room then?"

"All right, I'm supposing it. So what?"

The Sergeant caressed his chin. "I haven't worked it all out, but it does strike me that he may have thought he'd got to leave that door locked when he left the room."

"Why?"

"Might be the time element, mightn't it? He may have thought that if anyone was to come along and try the door a minute or two later, and find it unlocked, he'd be whittling down the time of the murder a bit dangerously. I don't say I quite see -"

"No, nor anyone else," interrupted Hemingway.

"There might have been a reason," persisted the Sergeant doggedly.

"There might have been half a dozen reasons, but what you seem to forget is that it isn't all that easy to turn keys from the wrong side of the door. If the door was locked from the outside, the man who did it must have provided himself with a tool for the purpose. He couldn't have done it extempore, so to speak."

"He could, by slipping a pencil through the handle of the key, with a bit of string attached."

"He could, but we haven't any evidence to show that he did. In fact, we've plenty of evidence to show that he didn't."

"Were there any finger-prints on the key?" asked the Sergeant.

"Old Herriard's, and the valet's, considerably blurred. Just what you'd expect."

The Sergeant sighed. "Nothing seems to lead anywhere, does it, sir? I'm blessed if I know how to catch hold of this case."

"We'll go back to the station," decided Hemingway. "I'm going to have another look at that key."

The key, however, revealed no new clue. It was a large key, and it had been lately smeared with vaseline. "Which makes it still more unlikely that it could have been turned from outside," said Hemingway. "To start with, I doubt if any oustiti would have gripped such a greasy surface; and to go on with, we'd be bound to see the imprint of the grooving on the grease. It's disheartening, that's what it is." He scrutinised the handle through a magnifying glass, and shook his head. "Nothing doing. I'd say it hasn't been tampered with in any way."

"Which means," said the Sergeant weightily, "that whoever locked that door did it from the inside."

"And then dematerialised himself like the spooks you read about. Talk sense!"

"What was to stop him hiding in the room until the body had been found, and then slipping out unnoticed, sir?"

"Nothing at all. In fact, you might have got something there, except for one circumstance. All the members of the household were accounted for at the time of the discovery. Think again!"

"I can't," said the Sergeant frankly. "Seems as though we've got to come back to the ventilator."

"The more I think of it, the more that ventilator looks to me like a snare and a delusion," said Hemingway. "It's a good seven foot above the floor, to start with, and too small to allow an average-sized man to squeeze through it, to go on with."

"The valet," said the Sergeant.

"Yes, I've thought of him, but I still don't see it. Even supposing he could have got through, how did he reach the floor?"

"Supposing he didn't come in that way, but was there all the time, and escaped through the ventilator?"

"Worse!" said Hemingway emphatically. "Did he go head first down a ladder?"

"Not the way I see it," said the Sergeant, ignoring this sarcasm. "I've got an idea he and young Herriard were in this together. It seems to me that if he'd had a chair to stand on he might, if he was clever, have got out through the ventilator. Once his shoulders were through, he could have wormed himself round, and maybe got hold of a drain-pipe, or a bit of that wistaria over the window, to give himself a purchase while he got a leg out. Once he'd got one foot on the ladder he'd be all right."

"Seems to me he'd have to be a ruddy contortionist," said the Inspector. "And what about the chair under the ventilator?"

"He could have moved that back when the door was forced open. Who'd have noticed? The old fellow would have been taken up with his brother's body, and if Stephen was in it he doesn't count."

"I can't see what you want with young Stephen in this Arabian Nights story of yours. Why don't you let the valet have the whole stage?" demanded the sceptical Inspector.

"Because if Stephen wasn't in it, there wasn't a motive," replied the Sergeant. "My idea is that Stephen bribed the valet to help him. I don't say the valet did the killing: that's going too far."

"Well, I'm glad to know you draw the line somewhere," said Hemingway. "And don't you run away with the notion that I'm not pleased with this theory of yours! I've always told you that you haven't got enough imagination, so it's very gratifying to me to see you taking my words to heart, which is a thing I never thought you did. And if it weren't for all the circumstances you've overlooked, it would be a good theory."

The Sergeant said in a resigned voice: "I know there are some loose ends, but -"

"Who set the ladder up to be handy?"

"Either of them."

"When?"

"Any time," said the Sergeant, adding after a moment's reflection: "No, perhaps not any time. As soon as it was dark."

"Have you ever tried to set a ladder up against a particular window in the dark?"

"No, sir, I haven't; but if there was a light in that particular window I'd back myself to do it," retorted the Sergeant.

"You win," said Hemingway handsomely. "I'll give you the ladder. And if you can tell me how Ford managed to be in his master's room and flirting with one of the housemaids at one and the same time, I'll go straight off and arrest him."

"The way I see it, the murder had been committed by the time he came up the backstairs, and went into the sewing-room."

"It may have been, but not by him. He was in the servants' hall."

"That's what he said."

"Exactly. And if he was as smart as you seem to think, he wouldn't have said that if he couldn't have proved it. You can check up on it: in fact, you must; but if you don't find that he's borne out by the other servants I'll be surprised."

"Well, I can't get it out of my head that he's the one person who could have gone in and out of the deceased's room as he pleased, and, what's more, have left his finger-prints about without occasioning any suspicion. I suppose no one could have monkeyed about with the bedroom windows?"

Hemingway shook his head. "You can't slip a knifeblade in between that kind of casement-window and its frame, if that's what you're thinking of." He frowned suddenly. "I wonder, though?… My lad, we'll go back to the house! Then you can nose round for a handy garden-ladder, while I have a heart-to-heart with old Joseph Herriard."

Unaware of the ordeal before him, Joseph had been trying, throughout luncheon, to second Mrs. Dean's attempts to introduce what she called a normal note into the party's conversation. Having announced brightly that they must try not to be morbid, Mrs. Dean had favoured the company with some anecdotes of a winter spent in the south of France; but as these seemed to lack any other point than the introdction of the names of the well-born people she had met in Nice, no discussion was engendered, and the subject petered out. Maud contributed her mite by recalling that the Archduchess Sophia removed the Empress's children from her care, and shut them up in a wing of the palace. Stephen was heard to groan, and although Mrs. Dean, with what Mathilda could not but consider very good manners, showed herself willing to search her memory for further details of the Empress's ill-starred career, Joseph evidently felt that no one else would have the patience to endure more Imperial reminiscences, and hastily changed the subject.

But neither his nor Mrs. Dean's efforts could avail to keep the talk away from Nathaniel's murder. It loomed too large in everyone's minds; and although Stephen was taciturn, and Maud detached, it was not long before it had become the sole topic of any sustained conversation. Even Joseph succumbed, and said, for perhaps the sixth time, that he felt sure someone from outside had committed the murder. This led to a discussion on the possible ways by which anyone could have gained access to Nathaniel's bedroom, and Valerie propounded the suggestion that there must be a secret passage behind the oak-panelling. This idea, thrown out on the spur of the moment, took such instant possession of her mind that she reiterated her dread of spending another night under this ill-omened roof; and it might even have induced her to consent to share her mother's bedroom, had she not reflected in time that she would not, in this event, be allowed to smoke in bed, or to read into the small hours.