A few minutes after twelve o’clock Mr. Williamson appeared, looking perhaps a trifle yellow round the eyes and, with a perfunctory remark or two, added himself to the silent circle. Again the rustling of newspapers was the only sound in the hall.
Once Ronald Stratton betrayed his anxiety by a muttered remark.
“I thought the constable said Crane would be back in half an hour? It’s forty minutes already since he went.”
At twenty-five minutes past twelve Ronald’s parlourmaid presented herself at Williamson’s side and said, in a flat voice which must have masked much interior fluttering:
“I beg your pardon, sir, but Inspector Crane would like to speak to you for a moment, on the roof.”
“What? To me, did you say? He wants to speak to me?”
“If you please, sir.”
“Inspector Crane?” Stratton repeated. “I didn’t know he was here, Edith.”
“Yes, sir. He came about a quarter of an hour ago, with Superintendent Jamieson and another gentleman.”
“But—I never saw them come, and I’ve been in here all the time.”
“They came to the back door, sir.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
“They said they were just going up to the roof for a minute or two sir, and it wasn’t necessary to disturb you, so I didn’t think to tell you.”
“I see. Well, if they come—if anyone comes like that another time, Edith, I think you’d better let me know.”
“Very good, sir.”
“What’s up?” asked Williamson, as the parlourmaid disappeared. “Eh? What’s it all about? What’s he want to see me for? I saw him last night, and told him everything I knew. What’s he want to see me again for?”
“I don’t know, Osbert, but presumably you’d better go.”
“Yes, I suppose I had. Well, I wonder what the devil he wants to see me for.”
Williamson began to climb the staircase which led up from one end of the big hall.
Roger watched his back in an agonised way. He was quite sure there was some terribly important thing he must say to Williamson before the interview, some warning hint he must give him which would smooth everything out. There was such a thing, but his mind seemed paralysed. He could think of nothing at all. In a kind of hopeless despair he watched Williamson out of sight.
“Well,” Ronald muttered, “and what the deuce do you make of that?”
Colin looked at them over the huge horn-rimmed spectacles he used for reading. “Dirty work in the camp?” he asked tentatively.
“Don’t know yet,” Roger answered, in a tone to discourage further questions in front of Ronald.
Ronald made a movement as if to rise. “Shall I go up?” he asked.
“Better not,” Roger said. “They obviously don’t want you.”
“The superintendent has come, then?”
“Yes. I thought that’s what it might be.”
“Yes. I wonder who the other one is?”
“Oh, some plain-clothes man, I expect.”
“I expect so. But why on earth should they want Williamson?”
“Well, he found the body, didn’t he?”
“Oh yes, so he did. Yes, that’s why the superintendent wants to see him, of course. Just routine I suppose?”
“That’s it, no doubt. Just routine.”
But Roger did not think it was routine at all.
Williamson was away for twenty minutes, and they were the longest twenty minutes that Roger had ever known.
Williamson was wearing his guilty grin.
“Third degree’s nothing to it,” he said, as he dropped into his chair.
“Nothing to what, Osbert?” asked Colin.
“To what they’ve been putting me through up there. Eh? This is a nice party of yours, Ronald. Haven’t you even got a drink to offer me? Eh? Haven’t you?”
“Damn drinks. Are the police still up there?”
“You bet they are. The superintendent, the inspector, two constables and—”
“What did they want to see you for?”
“Oh, a lot of damn nonsense. Wanted me to tell the superintendent everything I told the inspector last night, and a hell of a lot more. How I found the body, which way it was facing, how far I thought the feet were off the ground, where some chair or other was, how—”
Roger uttered an exclamation. He had remembered at last what the thing was about which he should have warned Williamson—the chair. He ought to have inserted into Williamson’s consciousness, just as he had tried last night to insert it into Colin’s, the idea that the chair had been there from the beginning. Now it was too late.
“Eh, Sheringham? What did you say?”
“Nothing. Oh, yes. What did you tell them about the chair?” Roger avoided Colin’s eye.
“Told them I couldn’t remember, of course. How could I possibly remember a thing like that?”
“And what did they say to that?”
“Told me to try and remember. Told me to try and throw my mind back to the moment I found the body, and see if I couldn’t picture the scene and all that, and where was the chair? Well, I did remember as a matter of fact that it couldn’t have been in the middle of the gallows, because I walked clean through them. So I said it must have been under the body.”
“Yes?”
“And then they said it couldn’t have been under the body or Mrs. Stratton would have been able to stand on it. So I said it must have been beyond the body then, mustn’t it? Well it must, mustn’t it? So then they asked me if I remembered now that it was beyond the body, and so I was getting a bit fed up and said I did, and would I swear to it and I said no, I wouldn’t swear to it, because I wasn’t prepared to swear to it, but that’s where it must have been, and now for heaven’s sake, Ronald, let me have a drink. I’ve been through the third degree, man. Eh? You don’t seem to understand. What with the police and then Lilian, and now you people—”
“Lilian?” said Colin idly.
“I met her on the stairs, and of course she had to know all about everything, too.” Mr. Williamson sighed deeply, as a husband will.
Roger was considering Mr. Williamson’s story. Williamson had given him better luck than might have been expected. At any rate he had not denied the presence of the chair altogether, as he very well might have done. But according to Williamson’s account, the police had framed their questions in a rather odd way; they had seemed much more concerned with the exact position of the chair than with the possibility of its total absence. Did that mean that they really were worrying only over Inspector Crane’s ridiculously insignificant point and the other alternative had never occurred to them at all? If so, they were more foolish than Roger would have expected; but he would be very grateful to them for their foolishness.
Williamson sipped the glass of sherry with which he had now been provided and continued his story.
“Well, I don’t know what else there is to tell you. They kept on asking me that sort of thing, and the inspector wrote most of it down. Where? Oh, we were in the sun-parlour. Didn’t I tell you that? Eh? Yes, that’s where we were. The inspector and the superintendent and me. In the sun-parlour.
“Oh, I know something else they asked me about. Yes, look here Ronald, they’re on to the state of affairs about your sister-in-law. Like hell they are. You’d better watch out there. I mean, they might make a spot of trouble over that, mightn’t they? Eh? Driven to suicide, poor girl, because of being cold-shouldered and all that, you know.”
“What state of affairs?” Ronald demanded.
“Why, my dear fellow, that all of you hated the woman like poison. What? You did, didn’t you? Well, they’re on to it all right.”
“How do you mean?”
“Why, they kept asking me, had I noticed during the evening any coolness between Mrs. Stratton and any of the members of her husband’s family? Had I noticed any bad blood and what’s-its-name? Did I know that Mrs. Stratton was not
persona grata
or whatever you call it in this house? Had I seen a quarrel between Mrs. Stratton and her husband during the evening?”
“Well?” Ronald said sharply. “What did you say to that?”
“Oh, I didn’t give you away. It’s perfectly all right. Of course, I told them it was all news to me, I hadn’t noticed anything; so far as I’d seen, your brother and she seemed a particularly affectionate couple; you all appeared not to be able to do enough for her. It’s quite all right,” said Mr. Williamson with pride. “I handed out the dope good and strong.”
“I see,” said Roger. “And the police are still up there? Any idea what they’re doing, Williamson?”
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Williamson cheerfully. “They’re still taking photographs. They’ve been at it all the time, with the inspector popping in and out of the sun-parlour like a jack-in-the-box, trying to do two things at once.”
“Did you say they’re taking photographs?” said Roger, in rather a strained voice.
“That’s it. There’s a professional photographer there from Westerford, I believe, though how they got hold of him on a Sunday morning I don’t know. Anyhow, they’ve got him there, taking photographs of the roof and the gallows and heaven knows what, from every angle they can think of. Seemed a bit unnecessary to me, I must say, but I suppose they think differently. Keen chaps, your police here Ronald.”
“Very,” said Ronald flatly.
“May I suggest,” said Roger elaborately, “that this room is open to the staircase, and Williamson has rather a strong voice?”
As he spoke, the telephone-bell rang. Ronald disappeared into his study to answer it.
Roger and Colin exchanged glances. Colin, peering over his glasses, lifted his eyebrows. In reply, Roger shrugged his shoulders. Both of them looked grave.
“I say,” said Mr. Williamson seriously. “I say, Sheringham.”
“Yes?”
“I say, this is really awfully good sherry of Ronald’s. Have you tried it? You should. I wonder where he gets it. You’ve no idea, Colin, have you? Eh? Have you?”
“Ach, shut up Osbert,” said Colin.
Mr. Williamson looked surprised, but not very hurt.
Ronald appeared at the door of his study.
“Sheringham,” he said, “can I speak to you for a minute in here?”
“Of course,” said Roger, jumping up. He hurried across the hall.
Ronald shut the study door.
Roger did not bother to disguise his anxiety. “More bad news?” he asked.
Ronald nodded. “That was my brother on the telephone. He says the police have just taken Ena’s body away from the house. They are taking her to the mortuary. I say, this is serious, isn’t it?”
“It might be. Look here, Ronald. Get your brother on the telephone again and ask him to lunch here, at once. Never mind if he turns up late. It’s the best excuse for having him up here. And tell him to answer no questions from anyone until I’ve seen him.”
“Yes, I will. Thanks. David’s a bit… What does it mean, Roger? That the police aren’t satisfied, I suppose? Goodness only knows why not, but that must be what it means. That they’ve got some sort of a bee in their bonnets?”
“A bee?” said Roger unhappily. “A hive!”
The lunch-gong brought the women downstairs.
Fortunately the continued presence of the police in the house was looked upon by them as part of the normal procedure, so that while lunch could hardly be called a cheerful meal, there was at any rate no spirit of general apprehension. Half-way through it David arrived, very haggard and curt, and his presence naturally added a further constraint to the gathering.
Immediately the meal was over, Roger made a sign to Ronald, who said a low word to David and carried him off. Coming back at once, he said to Roger:
“He’s in my study. Shall I come along?”
“No,” said Roger, and went off to the study alone.
He had been debating during lunch how exactly to convey his warning to David without appearing to know everything and yet without minimising the danger. The compromise on which he had decided had the weakness of all compromises, but it was the best one he could find.
“Look here, Stratton,” he said, without beating about the bush, “you know what this means, of course, taking your wife’s body off to the mortuary and messing about on the roof, as the police have been doing. It means that they’re not satisfied that your wife’s death was quite so uncomplicated as it looked at first. I’m not in their confidence, so I don’t know what their trouble is; but at a guess, it might be that there was last night some special motive, some particular incident or scene, such as a quarrel, which led to her taking her life and which has not yet been disclosed. Now, whether there was anything of the sort I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, any more than I want to know the exact details of her last moments. But if there was, and it comes to light, there’s bound to be a great deal of mud-slinging over the case; and that I do want to prevent for all our sakes.
“So I’d like to impress on you that it’s essential for you, of all of us, to have a perfectly simple story for the police, which can easily be supported elsewhere, so that they can understand that you didn’t follow your wife up on to the roof when she ran out of the ballroom and quarrel with her there, or anything like that. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Well, that’s perfectly simple,” David said shortly.
“I—”
“Wait a minute. Let me tell you.
I
know you didn’t go up there, because I was with you myself for at least ten minutes, at the bar. You remember? We were talking about the test matches and the absurd fuss the Australians made because we bowled at their leg-stumps instead of their off-stumps. I’m your alibi for that time. Then Colin Nicolson joined us, and I strolled up on to the roof for a minute or two myself—where, I may say, I saw no sign of your wife, who must have been in the sun-parlour.”
“Why?” asked David curtly.
“Why?” Roger repeated.
“Yes. Why must she have been in the sun-parlour? It was ten minutes, or more. That was plenty of time for her to have done it.”
“Of course,” said Roger hurriedly. He had completely forgotten that his very first theory had exonerated David because of those ten minutes. Of course that was David’s best defence. The doctor’s report as to the time of death must be firmly taken for granted. It had been clever of David to see that.
“Of course,” he repeated. “I don’t know why I said that she was probably in the sun-parlour. Most likely she had done it already. Still, there’s no harm in your having a margin of safety, so we’ll just get it exact. I left you, and you stayed with Nicolson another three or four minutes. And then,” said Roger with meaning, “you followed him straight into the ballroom, didn’t you, where your brother, no doubt, and other people saw you?”