Nothing Like Blood (11 page)

“Carolus will,” said Helena confidently, forgetting the object of the argument. “He's capable of finding a murder in any set of circumstances, I assure you.”

“But I don't want …”

“It would clear the air,” said Helena finally and the arrangement was made.

But, as Mrs Derosse and Helena anticipated, it did not please Christine. She drove up half an hour later in her pale-blue sports car and gave a disdainful look at the Bentley as she passed it. She must have heard from her aunt the identity of its owner because, when she came into the lounge to find Helena and Carolus alone, she was obviously controlling great annoyance.

“Oh, Christine,” said Helena pleasantly, “this is Carolus Deene.”

“I know,” said Christine with a short nod, “my aunt told me you had come to stay here. I'm sorry I was out. I will tell you frankly, Mr Deene, I should have asked her not to let you have a room.”

Carolus smiled. “I'm an undesirable?”

“In the circumstances, yes. I know all about you. I've read your cases. I can quite see that this must be a nice little mystery for you. Just the sort of thing you like. But does it ever occur to you, Mr Deene, that people's lives are not all crossword puzzles for your amusement? My aunt has her living to make. It's rather more important to us than providing you with an intriguing summer holiday.”

“I'm sorry you should feel that. I do enjoy trying to find the truth in complicated cases. I won't deny it. But I don't think of people as chess pieces, either, Miss Derosse.
If your aunt is the innocent victim of circumstances, I shall do all I can to be of assistance to her.”

Christine swung round, flushed with anger. “
If
my aunt,” she said, “
If
my aunt is innocent! Are you suggesting …”

“Miss Derosse, you must surely know that I must approach this with an open mind. It naturally seems absurd to you who know your aunt and are fond of her …”

Suddenly Christine smiled. “I was forgetting that part of the formula,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Carol us.

“I'll admit this, so far as I know anything about you, you don't look for publicity. What I dislike is that this place which is my aunt's pride, in fact her whole life, should be turned into a sort of haunted house at the fair.”

“That,” said Carolus, “has happened already, with two deaths, police inquiries, and an inquest. I'm not raising the dust any further. There can't really be much peace here till you know the truth, even if the truth is just what it appears to be to the outsider.”

“I want to know the truth, too,” said Christine.

“Then help me to find it.”

Christine considered. “I won't obstruct you,” she said.

“You won't tell me all you know?”

“All I know? What do you think I know about it that the police don't?”

“Quite a lot. For instance, what did Sonia Reid talk to you about on the night of her death?”

“To me?”

“Yes, Miss Derosse.”

“I don't remember her talking to me that night.”

“You don't? She did not ask you a favour, by any chance?”

Christine pulled at her cigarette.

“So you've started already. And on me. What makes you think Sonia would ask me a favour?”

“Because you were probably the only person in the house she could trust.”

“What favour?”

“Just to look after something.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“All right, Miss Derosse. Only I thought you were not going to obstruct me.”

“I didn't promise to help you, either. Let's have a drink,” said Christine. She seemed to feel some relief.

“Where are you going to start? “she asked Carolus over a dry martini.

“In the holiday camp, of course.”

“Have you ever been to one?”

“No.”

“You'll find it fascinating. What do you think Mr and Mrs Grimburn can tell you?”

“Too much, I'm afraid. I should think their story by now is so over-rehearsed that it will be difficult to extract any of its pristine truth. But I can try.”

“You can. You certainly won't have any difficulty in making them talk.”

“You see, that does seem to be the crux of the thing. What caused that young woman to go hurtling off into space? Was it pre-determined or accidental? Voluntary or involuntary? These are the first questions, aren't they? It's the old trio—murder, suicide or accident. It just might be that something those moonlight boaters saw will help me judge that.”

“I shouldn't be too hopeful. And you'll have to hear a lot more.”

Carolus grinned. “I'm rather used to that. It's nearly always too much—or too little.”

Bishop Grissell came in and Christine introduced Carolus, explaining his identity.

“Not much in my line, I'm afraid,” said the bishop, stoutly.

When his sister joined them she was even more direct. “You mean you're a detective? “she snorted at Carolus.

“I'm a schoolmaster,” replied Carolus smugly. “But with insatiable curiosity.”

Phiz said: “Phuh!”

“He asks the most devastating questions,” said Christine, beginning to enjoy herself. “He'll probably ask you where you were on the night of the crime, Miss Grissell.”

“What crime?” asked Phiz loftily.

“The first,” said Carolus. “The death of Lydia Mallister.” He watched her closely.

“Have I walked into a mad-house?” asked Phiz.

Carolus resisted the temptation to say' Not yet'. “Don't worry, Miss Grissell,” he said. “I shan't ask any questions you don't want to answer.”

“That's impudent,” said Phiz.

“I'm sorry. I meant it to be reassuring.”

“Have you any official status in this matter?”

“Oh, none whatever.”

“Then why should we be expected to answer any questions of yours?”

“People sometimes want to help me arrive at the truth.”

“Jesting Pilate, eh?” said the bishop heartily. “Phiz, my dear, I've no doubt Mr Deene means to be helpful.”

When the Gee-Gees appeared they were even more conciliatory than the bishop. Miss Grey, it appeared, had read books about Carolus's investigations and was most interested, she said, to meet him.

“Particularly if you manage to relieve us all of our
doubts over this nasty series of incidents, Mr Deene. This was, I assure you, a most peaceful and happy little community before …”

“Yes, Miss Grey; before what?” asked Carol us.

Miss Grey was confused.

“Well, I suppose …”

Miss Godwin came to her assistance.

“Before Lydia Mallister's death,” she said firmly.

The Natterleys did not appear before lunch, but when the meal was over they waited for Carolus to be introduced to them.

“We understand that you are here to investigate,” said the Major. “We would like you to know that anything we can tell you that may assist you is entirely at your disposal.”

“We have tried not to involve ourselves in the talk which has followed these very unpleasant events,” his wife added. “But naturally, living in the house, it has been impossible for us not to observe and hear certain things.”

“You will find we have a certain amount of information which will be of the greatest importance to you,” stated Major Natterley. “And when you reach a point in your investigations at which it will be helpful to you we shall be only too ready to give it to you.”

Carolus sighed. He knew that readiness.

“It's very kind of you,” he said.

“We make it a principle not to concern ourselves with other people's affairs. We lead very much our own life here, as you will observe. But in my years in the army …”

“What branch?” asked Carolus.

“Actually, the Pay Corps. In my years in the army I formed certain habits of observation which have stood me in good stead. We both, in fact, while never wishing to be
inquisitive, cannot help but see and hear. We are only too anxious that all our doubts shall be relieved.”

“Was Sonia Reid a friend of yours?”

The question seemed to shock, if not horrify, the Natterleys. The Major was the first to regain his composure sufficiently to speak.

“We cannot make it too plain,” he said, “that we have never had anything approaching friendship with anyone in this house. We believe in civility, but there we wish it to end. Such friends as we have, and they are few, are in no way associated with Cat's Cradle—people of a very different stamp. We are not, we hope, snobbish but anything more than the merest acquaintanceship would be quite impossible for us with other members of this household. The unfortunate girl you mention may on occasion have been one of a conversational circle of which we have briefly, quite briefly, formed a part. Nothing more.”

“Pity. I'd like to know something about her.”

“It is not impossible,” said Major Natterley, “that we can, from remote observation, give you some information on that score. But do not ask us, pray, for intimate knowledge of her character or antecedents.”

“I won't. What about Lydia Mallister?”

“There again, our habit of retiring to our own sitting-room …”

“Quite. Well, I hope we can have a talk some time. I appreciate your co-operation.”

Before the evening was over Carolus had met the entire household, except the staff. He was warned that he would find Steve Lawson a man very much changed since his appearance in Helena's diary as a fleshy and properous youngish race-horse-owner. He found, in fact, a surly fellow whose clothes looked as though he had lost weight. He was not exactly uncivil to Carolus, but he made it
clear that he should not seek his acquaintance. Carolus did his innocent blunderer act.

“I gather you were very friendly with Sonia Reid?” he said blandly.

“Sorry, Mr Deene. I don't talk about Sonia.”

This was curt and to the point and left even Carolus at a loss for a moment.

“I expect you've had quite enough of it with police inquiries. I'm sorry if I …”

“That's all right. You've got a job to do, I suppose. But I don't talk. I hope you understand that. Not in the witness box, not when the police ask questions, and not chattily with you, or anyone else.”

“You make it very clear. I only hope you will be able to keep to your resolve.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could imagine circumstances in which it would be difficult. But not with me, Mr Lawson. You won't be badgered by me.”

Lawson looked surly and puzzled, but said nothing.

Carolus met James Mallister and Esmée Welton together, as they were usually found nowadays. He had the impression, which they had also given to Helena, that they were quite hopelessly and sincerely in love.

“I wish you would get rid of this wretched business,” said Mallister in his rather sad voice. “It's been appalling for us, you know.”

The ‘us' was a quieter and less aggressive thing than the repetitive ‘us' of the Natterleys.

“You've probably been told already,” said Esmée, “that James and I want to get married.”

“Indeed I have. By more than one person,” smiled Carolus.

“You probably wonder why we don't. But, you see, neither of us has any relatives or roots anywhere else to
speak of and to get married from this house as it is at present would be rather ill-omened, wouldn't it?”

“I suppose so.”

“You've probably been told all the rest,” said Esmée—“how heartless we were to think of one another when Lydia was dying, and all that. The truth is, James was a saint with Lydia, Mr Deene. She had a wicked tongue and you don't know what he had to put up with.”

“At all events,” said Mallister, “do try to find out what it is that has made us all feel and behave like this since her death.”

“I'm really as much concerned with Sonia Reid's death. Do you think there was any connection?”

They seemed to think about this and answered reasonably.

“I don't see how there can have been,” said Mallister. “But it came while everyone was still talking about Lydia and …”

“The whole thing is beastly,” said Esmée. “I don't suppose it will be any less so when we know the truth, but at least then we shall know where we are, as we used to say. I for one am glad you've come.”

“Thanks for that. I get rather tired of being looked on as a sort of vulture, swooping down on dead bodies.”

Esmée smiled. “You don't look much like a vulture,” she said. “If there is to be any talk of vultures, I should have thought ‘Phiz my dear' qualifies splendidly.”

“Now, Esmée, don't be bitchy,” said Mallister.

“You've only got to look at her,” said Esmée. “I don't know what kind of a noise vultures make, but it can't be very different from that voice and the things she says. However, I'll do as James says and try not to be bitchy.”

S
O
the first impression Carolus had of Cat's Cradle was not like Helena's. He saw, that day, very little sign of tension and none of fear. Either these had passed with the death of Sonia Reid and the inquest which followed it, or everyone was putting up a show of confidence and indifference for his benefit. But he had not been long in the house before he understood what Helena had meant.

During the morning he persuaded Christine to let him make a thorough examination of the house, noting who occupied which rooms. She took him first to her own, ‘the room in the tower', and he spent some time there.

“What on earth is this huge table for?” he asked, for the centre of the room was occupied by a square deal table over which was an old-fashioned table-cloth.

“Sonia asked for it,” said Christine. “She used to bring work home from the business and had a typewriter here. I haven't got rid of it because I'm not staying long.”