The 12.30 from Croydon (18 page)

‘No one can make out,’ Peter returned. ‘It was the first question I asked myself, but I couldn’t answer it.’

‘He certainly couldn’t have got it recently,’ Mrs Pollifex added positively. ‘He rarely went into town, and never by himself. Besides, no one would have sold it to him. He must have had it hidden away somewhere for a long time. At least, that’s the only way I can account for it.’

‘I suppose he must,’ Charles agreed, ‘though it certainly was not at all like him. And yet I’m not so sure. He was secretive: I suppose most men of his age are.’

Peter agreed. For some moments there was silence, which Charles at last broke. ‘And there’s no theory as to motive?’ he said, more for something to say than in the hope of gaining information.

Peter shook his head, but Mrs Pollifex answered. ‘The only possible thing I can think of,’ she said hesitatingly, ‘though I’ve never put it forward – is that Andrew might have been excited on the previous evening and that it brought on a reaction next day. That Wednesday evening Peter and Mr Crosby dined here; that is, the evening the wire came from Paris. You and Mr Crosby had some business with Andrew, hadn’t you, Peter?’

‘Yes,’ Peter admitted uneasily. ‘It was that question of the mortgage on the farm. We discussed it quite amicably, though nothing was settled about it. But as I told you before, Mrs Pollifex, Mr Crowther was not in the least upset or excited.’

Mrs Pollifex nodded. ‘I know. I really only made the suggestion because I couldn’t think of anything else. Besides, the dinner was a small excitement compared with the journey.’

Mrs Pollifex had spoken calmly, but her manner showed the strain the affair was causing her. Peter also seemed ill at ease. The tragedy had obviously shaken them both.

‘Well, we may get some light at the adjourned inquest,’ said Charles. ‘When is the funeral?’

‘To-morrow at two-thirty.’

‘Then I’m just in time. Whom are you going with, Aunt Penelope? Can I take you and Margot?’

‘Thanks, but we’re going with Peter.’

On the whole Charles was relieved by what he had heard. Though he deplored the publicity due to the tragedy having occurred in the plane, on another point he was delighted. From the first he had recognized that he had to run one serious risk. Andrew might have called attention to the pills or mentioned that spilled wineglass. Though nothing could have been proved, the suggestion would have been very disquieting. But nothing of that kind could now arise. Andrew had died without making a statement. He, Charles, was safe.

And not only was he safe: he was now rich. Not rich, perhaps, as some men count wealth, but rich enough to carry on his works and get his machinery and marry Una – if she would have him. Charles’s fears evaporated. Everything was going to be all right. It had been a dreadful, a
loathsome
job, but it was now over. All was well.

The news which greeted Charles on his return to the works was also good. It seemed that while he was away they had booked no less than four orders. Admittedly none was large. But they represented a fortnight’s work for all hands, and though Macpherson had cut the price so that the profit could only be seen through a microscope, there was at least no loss. Charles congratulated him heartily.

‘What about the new machines?’ he went on. ‘Got all that information in from Reading?’

‘Aye, it’s a’ there, and from Sheffield forby.’ The engineer pushed forward a little pile of papers. ‘I slippit down to Sheffield to see yon,’ he went on, marking the illustration of a lathe with a huge thumb. ‘Man, it’s a bonny tool. It’d do fine for our wor-rk.’

‘Better than the Reading people’s, you think?’ said Charles, turning the papers over.

Macpherson thought so and lapsed into technicalities. His points were sound, as they always were, and Charles agreed with him. ‘Well, get the orders out and we’ll send them to-day,’ he directed, and went on to discuss the new jobs. When he had finished Macpherson hesitated.

‘We’re a’ very sorry aboot your trouble, Mr Charles,’ he said awkwardly, ‘though I’m thinking we’re maybe going to benefit here in the wor-rks. All the same it’ll be an upset to you.’

‘I would like to say the same,’ added Gairns, who had entered while they were talking. ‘We’re glad of anything that does you good, but sorry for the cause of it.’

Charles thanked them. Though it was true that they also stood to gain by Andrew Crowther’s death, he knew that they would have been pleased had he alone benefited.

After an early lunch Charles drove out to The Moat. The funeral was private and only special friends of the deceased, like Crosby, were present. The weather fortunately was fine, and with this mitigation the function dragged out its melancholy course. After it was over Crosby and the members of the family returned to The Moat for the reading of the will.

For Charles there was still an element of anxiety left. Andrew had told him on many occasions that he and Elsie were to be his joint heirs, and Charles had little fear that the old man would have changed his mind. All the same he had seen nothing in writing on the subject, and he could not help being worried by dark thoughts of slips between cups and lips.

Crosby, however, had gone only a little way with his reading before Charles saw that his fears were groundless. The will began with a number of small legacies. Mrs Pollifex was to get £10,000 and Margot £2,500. Weatherup, ‘in memory of kindly service’, was left £500, and there were five or six other small bequests. Then came the real issue. After the forementioned legacies were paid, free of death duty, the residue was to be divided equally between Charles and Elsie. The Moat was left to Elsie and for purposes of calculation was to be valued at £10,000. Crosby estimated that when all taxes and duties were paid, Charles would get about £62,000 and Elsie £52,000 and The Moat.

Sixty-two thousand pounds! It was a little fortune. Charles could scarcely restrain his excitement. Here was the financial safety he had so terribly wanted! Now he could afford to marry Una. Moreover, all his difficulties about the works were over. Now the bank would lend him whatever he required. Well, here was justification and reward for all he had done! He had had some bad minutes, but it had been worth it. It was like everything else: nothing venture, nothing win.

Charles, glancing across the room, was a little surprised by Peter’s manner. Peter did not seem at all impressed with his good fortune – for Elsie being the heiress really meant that he would have the handling of the money – and this was the more remarkable because of the straits he had been in. On the contrary he was looking extraordinarily anxious. Charles now remembered that he had been looking anxious on the previous evening. Ah well, Peter was a queer fish. You never knew how he would take anything.

Charles was excited for a reason other than the money. After dinner he was going to see Una. Now, as he put it to himself, would come the tug-of-war. Now the barrier which had been separating them had been swept away. How would she react? Would she accept him and agree to name the date, or would she find some other excuse for postponing the decision? Or would she turn him down?

Anyone who had seen Charles as he left Dehra Dun, the Mellors’ luxurious bungalow, could have guessed the answer to these questions. His face was shining, lit up with an overwhelming delight. Una had not agreed to name the day, but she had given Charles to understand that she would soon do so. For the moment everything seemed to Charles just right. Once again, here was the reward for his courage! Once again, nothing venture, nothing win!

Next day Charles found that he had regained more than all his former popularity in his native town. At the club everyone was commiserating and congratulating him in a breath: formal commiserations given conventionally; real congratulations both from genuine well-wishers and from those who wished to be friends with an influential man. At all events, whatever the motive, it was all very pleasant. In the congenial atmosphere Charles’s spirits rose still further.

‘We must celebrate,’ he declared, sending the waitress for some bottles of champagne.

After lunch he had a telephone call from the local police station. ‘Could I see you, sir, if I called at your house to-night?’ Inspector Appleby asked. ‘I’m trying to get some details about the late Mr Crowther.’

In spite of himself some of Charles’s exhilaration evaporated. However, he told himself, he had nothing to fear. As Andrew Crowther’s nephew it was obvious that the police would interrogate him. All he had to do was to keep his head, to answer as immediately and as truthfully as he could everything they asked him and to volunteer nothing. Moreover, he must show no nervousness. Well, he could do all these things. There was no reason why he should be nervous.

Nevertheless he could not help some quickening of the pulse when that evening there was a ring and heavy steps sounded in the hall. The door opened. Rollins announced, ‘Inspector Appleby.’

‘Good evening, inspector,’ Charles said cheerily, and yet with the slight solemnity suitable to the occasion. ‘Good evening, sergeant,’ for Appleby was followed by a policeman in plain clothes. ‘Can you find chairs?’

‘Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m making inquiries for my report on this matter of Mr Crowther’s death. I’ll not be very long.’

‘That’s all right, inspector; I’m at your service.’ Charles held out his cigarette case. ‘You’ll have a drink before you begin?’

‘No, sir, thank you very much. I don’t drink when I’m on duty. But I’ll take a smoke with thanks.’

Charles felt a certain relief. He believed police officers would not accept even a cigarette if their purpose was inimical. He passed over the matches and an ash-tray, then sat waiting.

‘You’ve been away, sir?’ Appleby began, while the sergeant settled himself at the table with his notebook open and pencil poised.

‘Yes, I was away for a holiday. I’d been feeling a bit run down and I decided to take three weeks.’

‘I envy you there, sir. Someone said you went to sea?’

‘Well, I did and I didn’t. I went on a cruise round the Western Mediterranean: the
Jupiter,
a Purple liner. You live on board all right, but you’re not really much at sea. You’re ashore at different places each day.’

‘So I’ve read. You weren’t able to complete your cruise?’

‘No. I got my cousin’s radiogram at Naples and came home to attend the funeral.’

‘Quite so. When did you see your late uncle last?’

‘Just before I went away. Let’s see.’ Charles took his engagement book from his pocket and looked it up. ‘I started for the cruise on Wednesday morning, the thirtieth of August. I dined at The Moat on the previous Friday. Mr Crowther was fairly well that evening and came down to dinner. That was the last time I saw him.’

‘I’m afraid then, sir, you won’t be able to give me much useful information. But still I might as well know what you thought of his condition?’

‘I thought him rather feeble, since you ask. Not exactly ill, he didn’t seem to have anything special wrong with him, but he seemed to be growing old too quickly, if you know what I mean.’

‘What was his condition of mind? Was he depressed or worrying about anything?’

‘He was slightly depressed. I put it down to the indigestion which my aunt, Mrs Pollifex, told me he was suffering from. So far as I know he was not worrying about anything.’

‘You didn’t think his depression would lead towards suicide?’

‘I certainly didn’t. Such a thing never entered my head, though now, in the light of what has happened, I’m not so sure.’

The inspector nodded slowly. ‘You had seen him a number of times recently?’ he asked.

‘Twice; no, three times,’ said Charles, looking up his book.

‘Was that usual, sir? I mean, to see him three times at short intervals?’

‘Well, no, it wasn’t.’ Charles hesitated for a moment, then spoke more confidently. ‘As a matter of fact I had a little business with him.’

‘Any objection to mentioning its nature?’

‘None whatever, provided you keep it to yourself. I don’t want it all over the town. I wanted him to give me some money.’ Inspector Appleby nodded. ‘You understand, sir, that you’re not obliged to tell me this unless you like. But if you’ve no objection, did he give it to you?’

‘He gave me part of what I wanted, and I think he was going to give me the rest, though he hadn’t actually said so. He gave me a thousand pounds. I wanted it to put in three new machines at the works, and the thousand covered that.’

‘You say, sir, that that thousand was only part of what you asked for. How much then did you want?’

Charles smiled. ‘As much as I could get,’ he declared. ‘As a matter of fact I mentioned five thousand, hoping to get two. My uncle gave me a thousand right away, and this, as I say, covered the matter of the machines. He hadn’t actually promised the second thousand, but I was satisfied from his manner that he would give it.’

‘I understand, sir. Did you put your machines in?’

‘Not yet, but they’re on order.’

The inspector nodded and remained silent for a few seconds. ‘Quite so,’ he said slowly, and then: ‘Your cousin, Mr Peter Morley, was also asking the deceased for money?’

Charles shrugged. ‘I heard so. I heard that my uncle was considering taking up a mortgage on his farm. But I know nothing of it first-hand. You’ll have to see my cousin.’

‘I’ll do so, sir.’ Inspector Appleby gave a powerful representation of a man thinking, then asked: ‘Well, sir, I think that’s about all I want. Except one question. Can you suggest any way in which the old gentleman might have got the poison?’

Charles made a gesture of helplessness. ‘I can’t form an idea,’ he answered earnestly. ‘As Mrs Pollifex was saying, he seldom went into the town and never alone. And it’s certainly not a thing anyone would bring him. Mrs Pollifex suggested that he might have had it hidden away for a long time, and that’s the only thing I can think of either. But I don’t give it as an opinion.’

The inspector rose. ‘That’s all, sir, at last. I’m much obliged.’