Fog of Doubt (16 page)

Cockrill went through the dividing door into the other room. ‘You took the 'phone call in here? Or in the surgery?'

‘No, I just picked up the extension in the drawing-room. It was right by my hand.'

‘Come through here and show me.'

Rosie heaved herself up reluctantly and came through from the surgery, the cat hanging contentedly over her shoulder like a fur; its black tail twitched in ecstasy as she ruffled her fingers through its shining short coat. ‘You
are
a
nice
cat,' she said to it.

‘Never mind the cat. Now you were sitting—where?'

‘Oh, Cockie, what does it
matter
? I was sitting here and Tedward put the tray here on this table by the telephone. So then he said I ought to go home, because I'd been so long coming, you see, and I was a bit worn out what with the baby and all. Ackcherly that's what I'd come to talk to Tedward about; and also because I wanted to get away from Raoul.'

‘But you didn't have time to discuss it?'

‘Well, no, because Tedward said I looked rotten and I ought to go home to bed and he'd get the car out and leave it ticking over and warming up a bit, and I suppose I could have talked to him while I finished my cuppa, only then the business of the telephone call happened and we never got round to it.'

‘Well now, yes, this telephone call; that's what we've come about.'

‘I just went on with my tea and in about a minute the 'phone went and the voice said all that about come quick and someone hit me with a mastoid mallet and all the rest of it; and then Tedward came back and I told him and we whizzed off.'

‘And it was a foreign voice?'

‘Well, yes, of course, because it was Raoul's voice,' said Rosie. ‘I mean, wasn't it?'

‘That's what I'm not so sure about,' said Cockie.

‘Not Raoul's voice? Then whose?'

‘Supposing,' said Cockie, very carefully, ‘that I suggested to you that it was—Tedward's voice?'

Rosie sat down with a plonk on the edge of the drawing-room armchair and the cat slid indignantly off her shoulder and scrambled on to the back of the chair and sat there angrily. ‘
Ted
ward's?'

‘Can you see any way that it might have been?'

‘
Ted
ward's? No, of course not. As if
Ted
ward …'

Cockie sat down on the chair facing her and leaned forward and took her plump, tapering hands in his. ‘Rosie—I know you're fond of Tedward; but you're fond of Thomas too, aren't you; you're more fond of Thomas than Tedward? After all he's your brother—and a very good brother too.'

‘Well, yes, of course.…'

‘So, of the two—wouldn't you rather that Tedward was a murderer?'

‘I don't see how he can be anyway,' said Rosie, shrugging off the issue as usual. ‘How
can
he be?'

‘Supposing—supposing he hadn't got the car out then at all? Supposing he'd run round to the nearest call-box and rung up this number and pretended to be Raoul.…'

Rosie made a little ducking, denying movement of her head. ‘Well, first of all he
had
got out the car, because there it was ticking over outside the front door, and it takes simply ages to get out of Tedward's garage, even at the best of times.'

‘Suppose it had been ticking over there, all the time.'

‘It couldn't have,' said Rosie. ‘I'd have seen it when I arrived.'

‘If it had been just round the corner, outside the garage, ticking over—it wouldn't have taken him a moment to drive it round, would it?'

‘Good lord,' said Rosie, ‘what a thing to think of!'

‘But it's true
is
n't it?'

‘I suppose it could have happened; but anyway, it doesn't matter because how could he have rung me up? And anyway, why?'

‘Never mind why. Now, you know this place very well: is there a telephone call-box anywhere near?'

‘No, there isn't,' said Rosie promptly. ‘There isn't for miles. I know because when the line conks Tedward has to get out the car and drive to the pub.' She added intelligently that it would have taken him hours to get through the fog to any pub that night.

‘What about the house next door?'

‘Oh, pooh,' said Rosie, contemptuously. ‘As if he could! I mean the people could tell you in a minute, and then where would he be?'

This also was very much to the point. ‘Is there another 'phone in the house?'

‘No, there isn't. There's one in the surgery and the extension in here and an extension by Tedward's bed upstairs, for night calls; and that's all.'

‘Of course he
could
have rung through from the real 'phone to this extension.'

‘I'd have heard him,' said Rosie. ‘It's only in there.' She jerked her chin towards the adjoining surgery.

‘He spoke very low.'

‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But, anyway, how could Ted-ward have got the bell to ring? I mean, it's too much coincidence to think that it just conveniently rang at that moment and he cut the other person off and crashed in.'

Cockrill had always known that through the solid ivory of Rosie's head ran a streak of the shrewd common-sense of her Welsh forebears. He respected it now more than he ever had done. ‘That's what I can't make out, Rosie, either. Suppose … Suppose he'd arranged with Operator to ring him at just that time?'

‘How did he know that it would be the right time? I didn't even arrive on schedule—I was late. And, anyway, he'd have had to say something to Operator, “thank you” or something, and he couldn't, because I lifted the receiver while the bell was just on its third or fourth ring and the voice chimed in immediately. Be
sides,
' said Rosie, waxing quite enthusiastic, ‘what's more to the point is that you'd only have to check that with Operator.'

‘If I thought of it!'

‘If Tedward was the kind of thinking-out murderer that you want him to be,' said Rosie, ‘he wouldn't take risks like that.' She added that anyway, Cockie
had
thought of it now so he could just ring up Op. and find out.

‘Yes, I shall some time,' said Cockie. But he knew that she was right. ‘You aren't such a mutton-head, Rosie, as one sometimes thinks.'

‘I know,' said Rosie with modest complacency. ‘People are always finding that out and being surprised.'

The cat, perceiving that things were settling down again, crept off the chair-back and established himself with contented wrigglings on Rosie's lap once more. Cockrill left them there, the fair head bent over the bright, dark coat, and went softly through the door to the surgery closing it behind him, and out of the further door into the passage and so round to the garage. A minute, perhaps less than a minute, to run the car round to the front door, if it were standing there round the corner, ready and ticking over. He went in and stood with his back to the Cosy stove, deep in thought. Tedward's big desk was up against the window, looking out on to the little garden; the telephone stood there, guarding its secrets with a closed, black mouth. He got out his papers and rolled one of his shaggy cigarettes. Ted Edwards must be a good doctor to consult; practical, comfortable, unformidable, warm-hearted—rather like this room! A big screen hid the cupboard of bottles and instruments, the examination couch, the ‘business end' of it all, and there were big, easy chairs where, when all that was over, he might sit and talk to those that needed it, like a friend; opening the doors on the bright, warm glow of the anthracite stove.…

So why, when Rosie arrived, cold and tired on a dank, bleak night, had he taken her through from that cosy room into the drawing-room and ‘lit the gas fire' for her?

The window slid up with very little sound. He put the telephone out on to the sill and closed it down again. Outside, with the telephone cord at full stretch, and the receiver in his left hand, he could just reach the back door bell with his right; and what is recognisable about a telephone bell is not so much its tone as that characteristic rhythm, that shrill ring-
ring
, ring-
ring
, ring-
ring
.…

‘Hallo?' said Rosie's voice, piping up at him from the receiver, held absently away from him in his left hand. ‘This is Dr. Edwards' house, but I'm afraid he's not here.…'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

M
ELISSA
opened the door to Cockrill that evening when, triumphant but depressed, he left the house on the canal bank in the hands of Charlesworth's minions and went back to Maida Vale. Rosie had gone off upon her own occasions; it was all too silly and Tedward would just laugh, but on the other hand it certainly was most pec
u
liar and Cockie was terrific; all the same, they'd called him in to help them, not to go and make out that poor Tedward had done it.… Even for Thomas.… ‘Surely we needn't go and tell the police, Cockie? I mean let them find out for themselves if they want to.'

‘I
am
the police,' said Cockie.

‘Yes, but I mean not to us, you're not; and you promised.…'

‘No, I didn't,' said Cockie. ‘I made no promises at all, and I've got my duty to do.'

‘Well, of course Tilda will be glad about Thomas, but she'll be jolly mad about Tedward, I can tell you.'

Fortunately Matilda was still out, doubtless upon her ceaseless activities in support of her husband's cause. Melissa took him into the kitchen and made him a cup of tea. She looked very white and scared these days and her eyes were heavy, with dark lines under them; her hair hung forward floppily over her face and Cockrill thought idly that it was true, perhaps, these young creatures did, sub-consciously, seek to shelter behind these masses of forward falling hair, and idly wondered what Melissa could have to hide. He leaned back against the Aga, warming the seat of his trousers on its cream enamelled surface, ‘This is nice, Melissa. A little oasis of peace.'

‘The kitchen always seems sort of comforting,' said Melissa. ‘It's warm and shiny and kind of everyday; you can forget for a little while—all this.'

‘About the murder you mean?'

‘Has there been any news about Stanislas, Inspector Cockrill?'

‘No,' said Cockie. ‘He certainly seems to have been a mysterious young man.' If he ever existed, he added, not out loud.

‘Yes, he was mysterious, Inspector. That was the thing. It isn't me that's made him mysterious, it isn't even him not turning up like this. He was mysterious anyway; I mean, like not telling me who he really was, no address or telephone number or anything like that.' Stanislas had, in fact, had a telephone number; one dialled it and simply asked for ‘Mr. Stanislas', nothing more on pain of death; a jolly, common voice replied that it would see if he was in and, probably on pain of death too, reported guardedly, In and coming in a minute or, without embellishment, Out; but Melissa had thought fit to exaggerate the cloak-and-dagger mystery of Stanislas for the benefit of the police, to whatever small extent it remained susceptible of exaggeration. ‘It makes it a bit awkward for me but still I don't suppose it matters very much, does it? I mean, I didn't know Monsieur Vernet, I'd never even heard of him till the day he was coming here, so it couldn't be anything to do with me; could it, Inspector?'

‘No,' said Cockie; ‘I don't suppose it could.' The police had found nothing in Tedward's house by the time he left, to confirm his theory of the trick with the telephone; but it could have been done. And if it had been done.…

A small cushion flew past the window and landed with a soft thud in the garage drive below the kitchen. ‘Oh,
blink!
' said Melissa. ‘She's begun again!' She put down her half-finished cup of tea. ‘I'd better go up; it doesn't so much matter at the back of the house but it's awful right out here on the main road.'

Mrs. Evans, however, was sitting on the sofa, the picture of innocence, busily pinning a lace cap on her hair which was balanced on her knee. She unhurriedly clapped it back on to her head at sight of Inspector Cockrill, where it sat rather crookedly on top of what was already there, the lace cap crowning it all. Melissa went across automatically and set it straight, skewering it into position with a couple of pins. ‘Thank you, Melissa; and thank goodness you've come, dear, now you can relieve me of this horrible child.' She smiled tenderly at her great-granddaughter. ‘Would you believe it, she's now started throwing things out of the window. The things these children think of!' She smiled with delighted mischief at Cockie, standing in the doorway, delicately embarrassed at the episode of the hair. ‘Do come in, Inspector, and don't stand there.'

Melissa swooped upon the child and bore her out, Emma squealing like a pig, whether with rage or delight it was hard to tell. Mrs. Evans gestured to a chair with a thin old hand, weighted down with unfashionable thick, gold rings. ‘Sit down, dear Inspector Cockrill, and talk to me. Really, after an hour of tick, tock, the nursery clock, you can't think how welcome a civilized chat will be.'

Cockie sat down in the chair across the fireplace from her. ‘Help yourself to some sherry—well, never mind if you've just had tea, they'll mix up in the end; there's the decanter beside you. No, not for me, thank you—I'm much too old and dotty to be allowed to drink: under the fumes of alcohol, God knows what I might get up to!' She eyed him brightly with her teasing glance.

‘God might have His doubts—but I think you'd know all right,' said Cockie, teasing back.

She gave him an almost imperceptible wink. ‘You're much too discerning.'

‘I won't give you away,' he said, laughing.

‘You see it—well, it gets very dull up here.' She sat silent, her hands lying quiet in her lap, her lovely, thin old face looking down, brooding, at the heavy rings with their multitude of little sparkling stones. ‘Life was so gay in the old days, Inspector, and there's so little left of it now—the old, gay, well-to-do, careless, flirting days, when I was a girl, when I was a young married woman. I was a great flirt, you know, really an accomplished flirt; you might almost say a professional flirt. My husband encouraged me; he loved to sec me making my conquests, he said it would be a waste to neglect such a gift.' She relapsed for a moment into a daydream. Cockrill, beginning to suspect where all this was leading, put in a gentle murmur. She came at once out of her abstraction and her voice took on a tinge of purpose. ‘And it was quite a gift, Inspector, it really did amount to a touch of genius to be able to flirt as we did in those days—so gracefully and delicately, to be able to break hearts just a little and not too much; and ones own heart not at all. And all innocent and above-board and unhurtful, not like the furtive scrabblings of nowadays; or scrabblings not nearly furtive enough. It's all physical now and not intellectual at all, as far as I can see; all do and no talk. Of course with us it was
all
talk; and perhaps that was bad too in its way—perhaps we were sex-repressed, only of course we didn't have a name for it so it did seem to trouble us less.' She shrugged delicately. ‘The modern people would say that it did trouble us, underneath. They'd say that that's why I throw things out of windows in my old age.'