At her next meeting with the barrister Diana broached the subject of funds. She was told not to worry about expense.
“Actually,” said Hull, “in cases of this kind it is quite usual for a popular newspaper to come forward these days and defray the cost of the defence—counting, of course, on the exclusive rights of the story. I understand such an offer has been made by one of the Sunday papers; but I don’t think we need avail ourselves of it. The fact is, only yesterday Mr. Blundell very generously volunteered to guarantee all fees. It’s that I wanted to speak to you about.”
Uncle Nick? Impossible! Diana stared.
“Why should he do this?” she asked blankly. “He can’t believe in Adrian, whatever he may say—or not say, for that’s more like it.”
“I dined with him informally last evening,” replied Hull, swinging his eyeglass tentatively. “He expressed no views, and seemed a little embarrassed about making his offer direct to you. His reason seems to be a sort of payment of old debts. It appears Doctor Somervell’s father, Mr. Joseph Somervell, was exceedingly helpful to him in earlier days—put him into the position of legal adviser to Siberex Oil Combine, which meant a big leg-up. He has never forgotten it, and he could not feel happy now if he did not do something for the son. Mr. Blundell realises, as any one must, the urgent importance of retaining a particularly able counsel. What we want is a man with a power of appeal well above the ordinary—Sir Kingsley Baxter, in fact. I’ve had him in mind. I need hardly tell you what an immense asset Sir Kingsley would be.”
Diana knew the reputation of Sir Kingsley Baxter. He occupied an almost unique position. Twenty times she had heard people say that if ever they committed a murder their first act would be to send for Baxter. She had read his speeches, which had struck her as sentimental and sometimes specious; but she was too clear-sighted not to know how vital these qualities were to Adrian’s cause. . . . “Only,” continued Hull, eyeing her, “a hitch has occurred. Doctor Somervell refuses point-blank to accept any outside aid.”
“Oh! He can’t refuse. That is, we mustn’t let him. Why is he taking this stupid attitude?”
“I took it to be a matter of pride. He’s undoubtedly very obstinate. I was hoping a word from you might move him.”
“It won’t,” murmured Diana slowly. “I think I understand, but I’ve no influence—none.”
Adrian believed Uncle Nick was making this offer for her sake. It was of a piece with his recent behaviour. She was filled with despair. A chance like this to be let go when life itself might depend on it? It was unthinkable. She looked at the barrister with defiant resolution.
“I’ll accept for him,” she declared. “He needn’t know what’s being done, need he? And if he’s acquitted, why, he can pay the fees himself.”
“Oh, undoubtedly!” agreed Hull, not meeting her eyes. “I must say I’m infinitely relieved at your decision. All I need tell Doctor Somervell is that we have arranged matters satisfactorily. I’ll engage Sir Kingsley at once.” His tone implied that in Baxter lay their one hope. Diana sat silent, cogitating. She had already told Mr. Hull her fixed intention of paying the cost of the private agent herself out of the rent-money she was receiving and the sale of her mother’s two bits of jewellery, and stipulated that Adrian was to be kept ignorant. She moistened her lips and asked if Mr. Blundell had said anything at all about Elsie Dilworth in connection with the murder.
“He did not. He showed me, however, Miss Dilworth’s note announcing her resignation. It merely said that her nerves necessitated a long absence from office work, and that she never expected to find another post so much to her liking. The letter was dated the twenty-eighth of October.”
Diana looked sharply across at the speaker. “Why, wasn’t that the very same day she called at the Home Office?” she demanded.
Hull, after referring to his notes, confirmed her belief, but declined to see any special significance in the coincidence of dates. Diana, however, could not help feeling that in some way Elsie’s sudden departure devolved upon her other action. She decided to speak of it to Bream, whom she had not seen again, and about whose activities she was in the dark; and then, on her way home, she fell to pondering her godfather’s latest move.
It was quite true that Joseph Somervell, at that time a millionaire and Aunt Rose’s husband, had done a great deal for his wife’s solicitor. It was equally true, she thought, that Uncle Nick had deep loyalties; yet it puzzled her to see him risking large sums on the defence of a man he must perforce regard as Rose Somervell’s murderer. Unless she was wrong? Possibly she had been, all along. There was always Arenson. Maybe Uncle Nick could not resist making grand gestures. She sighed and gave it up. Whatever the explanation, here she was again taking what was offered simply because she could not do otherwise. It was almost uncanny how at every turn she was being constrained to act in direct defiance of her own wishes. She was caught in a web of kindness it was impossible to break. . . .
“It is—I know it is—just colossal vanity on his part,” she concluded, and hated herself for her thought. “Poor man, he craves approval. It’s the breath of life to him. Even Mummy knew that, though she’d have cut her tongue out rather than admit it.”
Once one held this mainspring of action firmly in mind, numberless other puzzles were explained. For instance, Dame Charlotte. The desire for applause had led to the bestowal of a “tip” in this quarter, and what had been the result? A woman who was a snob and a prig had been changed into a warm partisan. As for the actress herself, she had unquestionably suffered some harrowing moments after she had entrusted her money to Nicholas Blundell. A murder had been committed. Of the will and evidence she knew nothing. What if Blundell and not the stepson had been charged? Oh, it was easy to see why old Lottie came to the Court petrified with terror and went away exulting! Diana asked herself if other people had harboured similar doubts. If so, they could only have been strangers unaware of the facts.
Outside her own door Inspector Headcorn was waiting. Now wholly absorbed in the thought of Adrian’s danger, Diana had nearly forgotten that the search for another murderer still continued.
““What is it?” she asked. “Have you got any fresh clues?”
The Scotland Yard man followed her into the drawing-room and stood warming his back by the blazing logs.
“I flew to Amsterdam,” he announced slowly. “I’ve seen enough to convince me that pawnbroker’s a fence, for all it’s a hard matter to establish. Well, then! How did a fellow like that allow himself to get landed with jewels placarded all over the place as stolen property? There are just two answers. One—which is his story—that he was caught napping; the other, that he had a private reason for letting the stuff be seized.”
“But what reason could he have?”
“He might have been paid for that very purpose—paid enough to make it worth his while, by some one who is dead set on ramming that burglary idea down our throats. It may sound mad, but it’s easier in a way for me to swallow than the first theory. The broker’s an old fox if ever I saw one.”
Diana began to tremble. Here, voiced by the most practical and unimaginative man she had ever encountered, was her own rejected belief!
“You mean my mother’s handbag was taken solely as a blind?”
“It’s possible. Had you thought of it?”
“Till the jewels were found, I had. It seemed too wild to admit. Shall I tell you why I had that idea?”
With gloomy interest he listened to all she had surmised about Elsie Dilworth. When she had done he shook a dubious head. It was virtually certain the secretary had not been to Holland, and it was hardly less likely she had hired an accomplice to go to Amsterdam for her. Such an enterprise would have cost far more than a woman in her position could afford.
“Are you sure of that?” objected Diana. “Don’t forget the money in the bag. It was in cash, small notes.”
“That’s so.”
Seeing him ruminate, she inquired if the pawnbroker had given a description of the person who deposited the jewels with him. Headcorn shrugged as he grumbled that there had been too many descriptions.
“All fishy. The old man and his assistant tell different stories, both trying to save their skins. Both swear it was a man, but we can’t lay hold of any reliable facts about him.” Shifting his position to get a better view of her face the Inspector continued, “Your notion was based on a belief that this secretary overheard your mother, while in this flat, make some alarming statement?”
“That was my chief reason. You see, my mother hadn’t an enemy in the world. I don’t know all she said that afternoon, but it’s certain she spoke to Mr. Blundell—perhaps to the servant as well—about her telephone conversation with Mrs. Somervell. Elsie Dilworth must have been during that time, for if she had tried to leave the flat my mother would have heard her. A guilty conscience might have made her exaggerate what she heard. If she’s innocent, why is she hiding herself? And why did she steal those letters out of my bag?”
“Letters!” The Inspector pricked up his ears. “What was in them?”
“Nothing that could possibly matter. She couldn’t have come here for them, naturally, but she did take them. Let me remind you again that she knew the workings of our front door in Seymour Square. She knew more or less the time my mother got home from the theatre, and the fact that Mr. Blundell was giving her the emerald ring and sunburst to take away with her. Don’t you see how it all fits together? My mother’s murder was a sequel to Mrs. Somervell’s.”
Headcorn, gazing at her, seemed to have fallen into a stupor. As she went eagerly on, racking her brain for forgotten details, he still stared so oddly that she grew uncomfortable.
“She admitted she’d read a novel giving all the facts about aconite-poisoning. I got it from a library. It’s called Murder May Lie. Afterwards she consulted Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence, in Mr. Blundell’s library.”
“As a lawyer, he would have a copy of that,” murmured the Inspector, moving towards the door. “Wait here,” he ordered. “I’m going to make a test. When I call out, speak a few sentences in your ordinary tone of voice.”
Opening out of the kitchen passage were two cupboards and a lavatory. In each of these Headcorn stationed himself to listen, and on his return reported that in all three places he could hear perfectly what was said, provided the doors were left ajar. He went back again and was still absent when a ring at the bell sent Diana flying to the door to find the visitor she had been longing to see—Mortimer Bream.
“Oh! At last!” she burst out. “Well, have you found out anything? Quick! Tell me!”
“It’s rather disappointing,” said the agent dejectedly. “I’d hoped for better results. I’m still hard at it, but I can’t say much more than that.”
Her heart sank like a leaden weight.
“Where’s Elsie Dilworth?” she faltered. “Surely you’ve located her?”
“Not yet. Oh, she’ll be found—that is, if she hasn’t done herself in. The pity is it’ll be the Crown that finds her, which means we’ll lose our chance of taking her by surprise. I warned you she’d be wanted as a witness. They’re keener than ever to nab her on account of her non-appearance at the inquest, and they’ve the advantage of being free to employ Scotland Yard and the B.B.C. I see you’ve the radio. Been listening to the announcements?”
“No. Why should I?” she answered dully.
He glanced at his watch. “They’re due now. Mind if I switch on?”
Crossing to the handsome lacquered cabinet, he turned a knob, and at once the announcer’s voice, well-lubricated and flavoured with an Oxford accent, rolled forth. It completed the news items, took breath, and began again to say that information was still being sought concerning Elsie K. Dilworth, formerly of Bloomsbury Street, W.C.1. A detailed description followed, ending with the request that any one possessing knowledge should communicate it forthwith to the British Broadcasting Company.
“That was the third time of asking,” remarked Bream, switching off the instrument. “There’s just one thing in our favour, which you may have noticed. No mention was made of Floyd’s Square. I assume the authorities have got the same hope as ourselves—that she may slide back there to cover.”
As these words were spoken the Inspector reappeared, and cast a cold, questioning glance at the new arrival. Diana made the two men known to one another, and sensing the diffidence on both sides, gave way to a sudden impulse.
“Why can’t we make an open council of it?” she appealed to them. “If there’s even a chance of these two inquiries hanging together, shouldn’t we save a lot of time and bother by putting all our cards on the table?”
Immediately she realised her blunder. It was true that demure amusement flickered behind the private agent’s lashes, but in the Inspector’s ponderous bearing she saw only disapproval. Not one syllable was uttered. Presently, while she reddened with mortification, she found the subject pointedly turned.
“There’s a door at the bottom of the linen cupboard,” declared Headcorn, addressing himself exclusively to her. “Know where it leads?”
“Door?” Diana frowned at him, puzzled. “Oh, that! It’s locked, isn’t it? And bolted. No, I’ve never troubled to inquire. This is a converted house. Evidently a bit was cut off when the flats were made. If you’re interested Mr. Blundell’s servants might be able to tell you about it.”
“James Ryman’s house, wasn’t it?” said Headcorn pondering. “Sold at auction some ten years ago, if I remember rightly. Well, I dare say it’s of no consequence.”
So saying, the Inspector turned and, with no leave-taking word, lumbered from the flat. Bream gave a chuckle.
“My company’s done it,” he declared. “Don’t you realise I’m not permitted to consult with the regular Force, and that a Yard man can’t possibly besmirch his dignity by holding truck with an outsider like myself? It’s simply not done.”
“How childish! Well, there’s nothing to stop me telling you what he and I have been discussing. It’s Elsie Dilworth again. I’ve been making him see that quite possibly she may be guilty of this murder and my mother’s as well. He’s just admitted the money and jewels may have been taken to put the police on a false scent.”
“Oh?” The agent eyed her alertly. “And his reasons?”
Rapidly she outlined what Headcorn had told her. Bream gave close attention, made no comment, and on his side recounted the history of his own investigations.
“If the truth of Arenson’s quarrel with Mrs. Somervell was ever known,” he said, “it’s forgotten long ago. He once proposed marriage to her—or so she boasted—but there was never anything between them. The general idea is he took offence at some remark of hers. The lady seems to have done a deal of talking, not always wisely.”
“I could have told you that,” murmured Diana dispiritedly.
“On the other hand,” continued Bream, pensively regarding the portrait of the actress over the mantelpiece, “though Arenson’s personal sheet may be unspotted, he must have got quite hardened to criticism over his business dealings. It’s unlikely he’d want to remove a woman who cast aspersions on a contract, besides which for the latter period the two were on splendid terms. Now for the Peckham Rye couple, aunt and nephew. More wash-outs, I’m afraid.”
George Petty, it appeared, was revealing himself an estimable young man, with neither debts nor entanglements. The old woman’s queer behaviour seemed adequately explained by the combined influence of the Home Office inquisitors and the secretary who, between them, had struck terror to her timorous soul.
“I’m assuming, I hope rightly, that, in view of the rapid and violent action of the aconite, the stuff used was fresh. It loses potency once it’s dried, and the aconite root I’ve tested shrivels rather quickly. Well, then, I’ve failed to discover, that any of our suspects had any monkshood growing on his premises. All the Pettys grow is geraniums and aspidistra in pots, the Floyd’s Square garden is bare as a bone, and Arenson has a crazy pavement with only a harmless border. If one of these people made a quick dive into the country during the week preceding the murder, I can’t prove it.”
“But you can’t disprove it, either, I suppose?”
“That’s it,” he assented ruefully. “Still, Arenson was putting on a new musical show, as you know, and seems to have been steadily on the job. George Petty’s motorcycle was out of commission, and while it was being repaired he spent his days rebuilding a fowl-house, while his wife minded shop. His aunt never stirred from this flat. Dilworth was working overtime, didn’t even take her usual Saturday afternoon off. The same, incidentally, applies to Mr. Blundell.”
Bream made this last statement so casually that Diana did not quickly register its significance. Tardily she glanced at him.
“So you’ve checked up on him, too, have you?”
“No objection, I hope?” The agent looked apologetic. “I know he’s not a suspect in the ordinary way, but I’d be making a bad job of it to leave him out entirely.” Not waiting for her reply, he hurried on. “Now I’ll come to the one factor which promises hope. You remember that young Indian we saw at lunch? Well, he’s been after Dilworth’s room. Acting on a hunch, I lay in wait in the alley at the back, and at two in the morning saw him trying to climb over the wall. He slid through my fingers. Now the latest bulletin is—”
Bream broke off. His eyes and Diana’s, which had widened with excitement, turned abruptly on the door leading to the dining-room. There stood Inspector Headcorn, once more in their midst!