Nothing Like Blood (21 page)

“I can tell you its source was reliable,” said Carolus, “but I don't suppose you will take my word for that.”

Brizzard pondered, then offered Carolus a cigarette. His manner became rather more conciliatory. “I think it is your duty to tell me, Mr Deene. I am responsible for the investigation of these events and you are not.”

“Perhaps I feel as much responsibility as you, Inspector.”

“I admit you may feel a certain moral responsibility, but it is I who would be held accountable for any further unpleasant events at the house. You must see that. If what you tell me is true, there is, as you have said, a situation which may well be dangerous. How do you
know
there were two envelopes?”

“I understand your position,” Carolus said. “I even respect it. As you say, you would have to carry the can for another murder, both in your own conscience and publicly. This is the sort of thing that would mean questions in the Commons, and heaven knows what! I see all that. But to tell you how I know would be a breach of confidence. I simply can't do it. I can only say that I firmly believe it to be true and leave it at that. Besides,
is
it so important? Presuming there is a murderer, and that he or she is out for that envelope, whether a blank has turned up or not, the murderer must still be looking for the real one.”

Brizzard assumed his poker face. “I'm sorry you won't tell me,” he said. “Have a cup of tea? “He turned to the man at the other desk. “Tynan,” he said, “see if you can get some tea. Meanwhile,” he returned to Carolus, “is there anything else you have … chanced on while you have just been staying casually in that house?”

At last there was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

“I expect you know it all. That Sonia Reid had Dormatoze tablets?” Brizzard nodded. “The bishop's past. Yes? Lawson's debts and engagement to Sonia?”

“I didn't know they were actually engaged.”

“I have only her foster-mother's word for it. Mrs Tukes, 17 Northumberland Terrace, Forest Hill.” Brizzard took a note. “Mallister's colourless past and his wish to marry Esmée Weiton and get away? You probably know more about Mallister than I do. I can find nothing of interest, though in a way he is the most deeply involved of all. I don't care for him much, though he seems popular in the household, doesn't he?”

Brizzard was not to be drawn.

“Sonia complaining that her room had been searched. Lydia's will. What the Grimburns saw—
ad nauseam,
I expect. Where everyone was at the relevant times, or where everyone says he was. The footsteps Mrs Jerrison heard and the footmarks Jerrison saw. It's all terribly insubstantial, isn't it?”

“It's a very curious case,” said Brizzard.

They stirred their tea.

“I was hoping,” tried Carolus brightly, “that the contents of that envelope would enable you to make an arrest.”

He watched Brizzard closely, but there was no change of expression.

“I thought, in my artless way, that whatever was in it might be some proof that Lydia Mallister was murdered. Then it would all fit in. Sonia trying to blackmail …”

“You were wrong, Mr Deene. That envelope did not contain proof or even evidence that Mrs Mallister was murdered.”

Carolus stared at the policeman, surprised that he should have said so much.

“So I shall have to begin all over again, shall I?” he grinned.

Brizzard's attitude seemed to indicate that the interview was over and Carolus went out into the wet evening to walk to his car.

Just as he was starting it, Esmée Welton came across. “My wretched car won't start,” she said. “Will you give me a lift if you're going out to Cat's Cradle?”

She climbed in and went on talking. “I wanted to get home because James isn't well today,” she said. “He stayed in his room. I don't think you realize what a strain this is for us all. Poor James has never been strong, and since that operation …”

“You're very fond of Mallister, aren't you, Esmée?”

She turned to Carolus, smiling. “That's an understatement,” she said.

“Then give him a tip from me, will you? Tell him not to take any chances till this thing is cleared up. Not to be alone near the top of the cliff, or anything. To eat what we all do. You know, just ordinary precautions.”

“Do you mean—James is in danger?”

“We're all in some danger, Esmée. All of us.”

“But James in particular?”

“Mallister has not told me much,” said Carolus. “If
he knows more than he has been willing to say to me or the police …”

“I don't think so. He is very frank. Oh, I wish it were all over. I long to get away from here.”

They ran across from the car to the front door of Cat's Cradle, for now the rain was pelting down. The wind had dropped and the rain had that dreary persistent continuity which is noticeable when the night is still and the clouds low.

Esmée hurried upstairs but Carolus found himself stopped in the entrance hall by the formidable obstacle of an infuriated Phiz Grissell. She seemed unnaturally tall and menacing. “What do you
mean
by it? “she asked. “How
dare
you?”

Carolus guessed what had happened. “Good evening, Miss Grissell,” he said. “Is there something wrong?”

“You know there is. Don't prevaricate. How dare you go to that miserable little buffoon Cracknell to ask questions about my brother? Is that the conduct of a gentleman?”

“No,” said Carolus. “It is the conduct of someone determined to discover the truth, gentility or no.”

“It is outrageous. You know perfectly well my brother is not concerned in all this jiggery-pokery here. Why go and question that insignificant little wretch Cracknell about him?”

“To be candid, Miss Grissell, I was not interested so much in your brother's story as in your own.”

Miss Grissell snorted. Though few living men can know what the snort of a war-horse is like, it is safe to suggest a resemblance.

“Are you being impertinent? “she asked.

“If you like. The truth is, this kind of investigation and good manners have not much relationship.”

“I think you're a cad,” said Phiz.

“There will be many to agree with you.”

“To go nosing into people's private lives. Especially by questioning that giggling little nonentity Cracknell. I have never liked or trusted him. I suppose he told you some cock-and-bull story about my brother?”

Carolus was suspicious. Did she really think that the reason for Bishop Grissell's resignation was a secret?

“He only told me things generally known,” said Carolus, and left her.

M
OST
of the people at Cat's Cradle said afterwards they would remember what happened that night to the end of their lives. For one of them, at least, that meant a very short time in which to recall it.

The first significant event passed unnoticed by most members of the household, yet, as it afterwards appeared, it had an important place in the sequence. Against all precedent Christine Derosse called on Miss Godwin and Miss Grey just after they had gone up to their room to dress for dinner. Not even Mrs Derosse had often penetrated the stronghold of the two spinsters, yet her niece knocked loudly and long when they timidly at first made no answer, then called their names and her own and asked for admittance. She remained, as Mrs Jerrison ‘couldn't help noticing', for at least half an hour.

The meeting of Mrs Derosse's guests in the lounge for a drink before dinner, which had once, as some remembered, been such a pleasant occasion, was almost sullen, though unusually complete. Perhaps the dark and rainy
evening had discouraged other plans, or perhaps some presentiment of drama had brought them together, but all were there.

Mrs Gort sat talking to Mrs Derosse while the bishop and “Phiz my dear” remained aloof, looking rather fiercely about them and particularly at Carolus Deene. Miss Godwin and Miss Grey were also a little apart, but their isolation seemed, as usual, reserved rather than unfriendly. Carolus had a drink with James Mallister, who had decided to come down for dinner after resting in his room until now. Esmée joined them and talked with unnecessary gratitude of Carolus rescuing her that evening. Steve Lawson remained alone, knocking back three double gins, and the Natterleys arrived late and drank nothing, though—as at the drop of a hat they would have explained—they believed in putting in an appearance to show that they did not wish to be unsociable, however they might jointly feel about the gathering. Jerrison, inscrutable but competent and obliging, served drinks.

Conversation, however, did not ‘hum' or ‘buzz' or ‘crackle' as it is reputed to do at cocktail parties; indeed it never became general at all, though the bishop could presently be heard recounting an incident that had befallen him in Pretoria—or was it Paulpietersburg, Patsankonda or Plattbeen?—to which the Gee-Gees listened politely. Carolus was absent-minded, though Mallister seemed to be making extraordinary efforts to maintain some kind of conversation with him. Everyone looked rather tense, but that had ceased to be unusual.

Dinner was chiefly notable for an argument between Christine and Carolus. She had at first resented his arrival and, though Carolus had taken her into his confidence, it seemed tonight that their early hostility was renewed.

It started with something Carolus said about the Merry
down Camp which Christine professed to find affected and highbrow. “It makes thousands of people happy; why should you gibe at it? “she asked.

“I don't. I was impressed. The organization is remarkable.”

“Oh, don't be so precious!” said Christine, exasperated by this uncomforting praise.

They bickered on for some time until Christine let herself become more personal. “You're not even very good as a self-appointed investigator, Mr Deene. The police will get to the bottom of our troubles far sooner than you.”

“Think so?” said Carolus.

“I
know
it. They will have the whole thing finished tomorrow, and you can go back to your school and teach history again and not try to interfere in the lives of other people.” She was flushed and angry, but seemed to think that she had said too much. “I'm sorry if I was rude,” she added. “I'm a bit het up tonight.”

Miss Godwin stepped in with a diversion, evidently for the sake of peace. “Are you planning some alterations, Mrs Derosse? I saw two workmen in the house this afternoon.”

Mrs Derosse seemed delighted with this. “Re-decoration,” she said. “I meant to tell you all. They're starting with my room, to give you time to decide. If any of you would like your rooms done up, do let me know and choose your colour scheme. Your room I know wants doing, Bishop.”

Bishop Grissell coughed. “I am not sure that we shall be staying here much longer,” he announced. “It would scarcely be fair to ask you to decorate to our taste if we are leaving.”

“Back to missionary work?” asked Christine mischievously.

“I've made no decision yet.”

“What about your rooms, Mrs Natterley?”

The Major answered for her. “We, too, are uncertain about our movements,” he said. “We rather feel that perhaps, now that currency is less restricted, we might try Madeira.”

Mrs Derosse did not press her offer further. “Well, if any of you would like new decorations, I hope you will let me know,” she said placidly.

When dinner was over, the Natterleys were the first to leave, but not before they had gone through their nightly performance of ‘taking coffee' with their fellow-guests and saying good night with marked formality. But tonight they were followed after a few minutes by Mallister, who reminded Mrs Derosse that he had not been well today and intended to have an early night.

Steve Lawson sprawled in an armchair in a corner of the room and Carolus wondered whether he was asleep, for his hand shaded his eyes as he lay. But quite suddenly he rose and with a surly ‘good night', addressed to the room in general, walked out.

There was a long silence after his going till Miss Godwin remarked: “I didn't hear Mr Lawson's car start up. He usually goes off in his car after dinner.”

“I don't think you would hear it tonight, Miss Godwin,” said Carolus, “with this rain coming down.”

“Perhaps not. I notice he no longer has his large car,” murmured Miss Grey absently, never ceasing her needlework.

“No. He sold the Jag,” said Christine shortly.

To Carolus's relief this did not remind the bishop of someone who had sold a car in some remote corner of his former diocese; indeed the bishop had no reminiscence for them at all, and Phiz looked anything but chatty. After one feeble murmur to his sister that he did not
remember rain like this since they were in Tamatave, he in turn took his departure, his sister with him. They looked pointedly away from Carolus as they said good night to Mrs Derosse and Christine. Even Helena Gort, presumably as a known friend of Carolus, incurred their displeasure.

Christine was the next to go. She kissed her aunt and and gave Carolus her hand. “No offence? “she said.

“No offence,” said Carolus. “Take care of yourself, Christine. I mean that. You can laugh at anything you like about me, but not my warning to you.”

Christine smiled. “When will you realize that women are not absolute fools?” she said. “Why should you think I can't take care of myself?”

“I believe you can; otherwise I shouldn't be sitting here. But …”

“Good night, Carolus,” said Christine, and walked out of the room.

Miss Godwin looked up from her needlework and said archly: “I wonder why you are so concerned for Miss Derosse, Mr Deene. She seems a most self-reliant young person.”

“I dare say she is,” said Carolus.

“Mrs Derosse is quite happy about her, I'm sure,” went on Miss Grey, “or she would not let her stay here.”