As soon as Diana was alone she plunged her face into cold water, drank what remained of the coffee, and strained every nerve to see in what way her discovery might affect matters. Her brain was alert, but her thoughts jumped about like puppets on wires. Involuntarily her hand strayed towards the cigarette-box, hovered, withdrew. No, on the bare chance that these queer lapses came from over-smoking she must break the habit, whatever it cost her.
Rose, she decided, might have let her former will remain undestroyed for a simple and obvious reason—namely, that it had mysteriously disappeared; but if she had never intended to destroy it? Would that mean she did not know that a later document had rendered it invalid? Dull-witted she had been towards the last. How lightly this had been touched upon during the trial! It seemed as though no one on either side had remotely questioned her sanity. Why? Because the solicitor who prepared her last will and testament, himself not benefiting, knew her intimately. It was true that others considered her sane—Petty, Gaylord, Mrs. Ransome, Blundell’s cook; but the great point was Blundell’s word for it. It occurred to Diana that just here might lie a stupendous fallacy, unperceived, impossible to prove. Rose might have been sane in the ordinary use of the term and still in a condition so unlike her usual shrewd self that she might have signed a second will without realising it. Certainly she had never mentioned the will to any one apart from Blundell. Her friend Margaret had assumed she meant to tell her about it later on, but that interpretation of a cryptic remark had come after the incident was revealed.
Had this wildly improbable thing really happened? Colin might say it was useless to consider it now since the truth could never be known. All the same, Diana did consider it, again and again forcing her mind back to the salient points. Could Nicholas Blundell have schemed to have forty thousand pounds willed away from himself? It sounded fantastic. If so, he could have had but one reason: To safeguard himself completely, in the event of trouble, from all breath of suspicion.
Yes, that was excellent logic; but it left the core untouched. One still had to provide Blundell with a motive for removing Rose, and what motive could there be? The threadbare question! It must be a strong motive, overwhelming, in fact, since it entailed the sacrifice of so much substantial gain. Jealousy? Latent madness? Fear of exposure? Diana reviewed them all, dwelling longest on the last and, as before, vetoing it simply because Rose’s own attitude gave it the lie. With her last conscious breath Rose had voiced only affectionate, admiring friendship for Blundell. If a wish to injure him had lurked in her lazy, self-centred mind, Margaret would inevitably have guessed it. Such a notion was unthinkable—and no other was left.
At last, feeling that her brain was only snarling itself into fresh knots, Diana undressed, got into bed, and lay staring up at the dark ceiling and waiting for Colin to telephone her. Twelve struck, then one. It was shortly after this that, still wide awake, she heard a powerful car stop under her window, and men’s voices floating up. Subdued voices they were. Only her vivid wakefulness made it possible to catch them, and to identify her godfather’s gruff tones amongst the confused rumble. She slid out of bed, parted the thick taffeta curtains, and looked out.
By the pavement, frostily gleaming, stood Lord Limpsfield’s magnificent, oyster-coloured car. From it three figures had alighted, and were mounting the shallow steps.
A sharp, late-risen moon shone full on them. The largest man spoke to the chauffeur, who climbed back into his seat and drove off. Even from this angle she recognised Lord Limpsfield himself. Blundell, of course, was the one now opening the door; and the third? He looked up and around, nervously—a dapper, bare-headed man with hard black eyes and a close black moustache. He was the Minister of Arterial Highways, Sir Norbury Penge. The trio went inside and the door closed quietly.
Blundell had probably been dining with these clients in some place where private talk was difficult, therefore he had invited them home for a drink and a chat. To do so at this late hour seemed to argue a closer connection than Diana had hitherto conceived; but it was not that or the question of what they meant to talk about in privacy which set going another train of thought. She was recalling that Limpsfield and Penge were the witnesses who had confirmed Blundell’s presence in his flat throughout a certain evening, and that on their word and theirs alone—if one discounted Gaylord—rested a most vital alibi. Inspector Headcorn was fully satisfied they had spoken in good faith; but was this so? Suddenly Diana wondered if even Headcorn and his fellow-inspector could have been taken in by skilful acting. Limpsfield and Penge might have some urgent reason of their own to keep their solicitor clear of scandal. Their statements might have been pre-arranged. They might even have foreseen the elaborate precautions Scotland Yard would take in the attempt to snare them.
It was the wildest conjecture. Considering who these two men were, what they represented, Diana at a less abnormal time would have scoffed at it. Now she queried everything. She would have given her soul to listen in on the conversation going on below in the desperate hope that a chance word might reveal collusion. She even toyed with the idea of getting dressed and going downstairs on an invented pretext; but any open move would defeat her purpose. Oh, she groaned, if only she had not locked and bolted the door of the inside stairs! At the foot, behind the bookcases, would have been the ideal—
Had she locked that door?
With a shiver she remembered. No, she had forgotten to do it! Days ago it was, after her unavailing search for the oil-bottle Colin had wanted her to find. Gaylord had been about, and she had been obliged to leave the locking up till another time. Blundell, of course, might have been in there and noticed the door was unfastened. If so, he would have turned the key, incidentally making some astute deductions which he had kept to himself. The blood singing in her temples, she slipped on her dressing-gown and mules and crept along to the linen-cupboard.
The door was not locked! With infinite caution, she edged through, and in thick darkness, feeling her way, crept to the bottom of the little, narrow stairway. There, crouched low, she strained her ears. A low mumble penetrated to her, but she could distinguish no words. She must open the lower door—a grave risk. She felt for the steel knob, turned it, taking an age in the process. Now the door was open a mere crack, through which, high up, a dim glow entered from the tiny space at the top of the bookshelves. A whiff of cigar smoke wafted to her nostrils. She waited, holding her breath.
At first she heard nothing but a crisp rattle of papers. Soon, however, a voice she knew instantly for that of Sir Norbury Penge spoke in dictatorial, waspish tones.
“That man of yours on the premises again?” it asked.
“Gaylord? Oh, no! I got rid of both him and my cook for the entire night. You see, I remembered your nerves.”
It was Blundell speaking. He sounded easy, reassuring, but subtly different from his usual self.
“I’m thundering glad to hear it,” returned the Minister, mollified, but still petulant. “What with your giving evidence in murder trials, having to furnish alibis and what not. . . . Oh, sorry, old man!” It was a grumbled apology. “That got you, did it? No offence! I was forgetting both those poor women were your friends. What struck me was the devilish bad luck, just now, to have police inspectors poking into your affairs. You never know what they’re up to, once they start nosing round. Sure you’ve left no memoranda lying loose?”
Diana, huddled in darkness, felt a strange mingling of disappointment and electrified excitement. These visitors did not connect their solicitor with murder, therefore her main hope was blasted; but some other matter was afoot which must be kept secret. She put her ear to the crack and heard Lord Limpsfield’s rich voice saying in accents of reproof:
“Come, come, Norbury! Blundell’s no fool to go leaving memoranda about. Every scrap of paper stays in his strong-box at the bank, except when he fetches it out for us to look over. Isn’t that so, Blundell?”
“Certain sure,” soothed Blundell. “And back it goes first thing next morning. Nick’s taking no chances. Now, then! Here’s the list of our newest holdings—Wolverhampton and North Riding districts, likewise Hertfordshire. Complete with alleged developments. Like to run through ’em?”
“Thanks.” There was a gurgling noise as Sir Norbury drained his glass. “Let’s have the map. . . . I say. Limp!” His tone changed. “What price that letter in The Daily Beam complaining about public funds squandered on unwanted highways? Your leader made hash of it, but the Beam’s got a million circulation. We don’t want the Labour crowd giving tongue, do we?”
“They won’t.” The peer laughed comfortably. “Future stuff of that sort will go down the drain. I’ve fixed Peterson. Handed him a nice block of shares in Wyckhampton Improvements, Ltd., over lunch to-day. Don’t you fret yourself about a Labour organ with me controlling four-fifths of its advertising support. The beauty of teamwork, what?”
The voice purred on contentedly, thickened by a cigar:
“H’m . . . a pretty turnover. We’ve a fortune now, on paper. Three fortunes, I should say, and it’ll mount higher, and go on mounting. Oh, God, yes, this is only the start! Nick, old son, my compliments on the spade-work. You must have done a long bit of burrowing before you brought us into things.”
“Six years it took me,” was the proud boast. “Buying here, there, up and down the country. All on my own. I turned out my pockets.”
“And a few others, no doubt?” The sly dig came from Sir Norbury. “Big opportunity, nursing estates. I trust your books are squared?”
“To a farthing. Here, you’re not drinking. Port, or whisky?”
The momentary silence was broken by the faint tinkling of music. It was “The Bluebells of Scotland,” rippling forth placidly as the trick whisky tantalus was lifted. Strange, silly sounds! Sir Norbury jerked out an irritable: “Christ!” followed by a grudging laugh.
“I’d like to smash that bottle. It is whisky, is it? Good. The port you keep sent me home all wonky after our last evening session. You complained about it, too, Limp—or am I wrong?”
“What’s that? Oh, the port. Something balled me out. I oughtn’t to touch port. Look, I’ll read over the items, you check ’em. That’ll save time.”
Then came a long drone of figures, coupled with names of towns, options, concessions, all unintelligible to Diana, who nevertheless was fast gathering two facts—first, that she was listening to the innermost working of the great Penge Plan; second, that the enterprise was a gigantic fraud, conceived by her godfather, and operated by him in conjunction with his two companions. The revelation made her gasp; but she could not yet see that it impinged on her problem. What chiefly interested her was the casual reference to the port, suggesting as it did a faint doubt as to the guests’ condition on a given occasion. How, though, could she know if “the last evening session” had taken place on November first? It might have been on another date—and, furthermore, the speakers themselves betrayed a total lack of suspicion towards their host. Later remarks confirmed this. Business concluded, the talk turned on the Somervell crime.
“Nasty mess, that,” Lord Limpsfield commented. “When that secretary woman made off I was in the devil of a stew. Penge had the right idea. We were both afraid she’d twigged something. That was one false alarm. The other was the question in our minds: Who benefited by the lady’s death?” He chuckled reminiscently. “A nice pickle if it had been you, Blundell. What about it, eh?”
“Me?” The solicitor conveyed mild astonishment. “Oh, no chance of that! I was attached to Mrs. Somervell. She thought something of me; but there was small point in her leaving me money. In a manner of speaking, the boot was on the other foot.”
“First and last,” declared the Minister of Arterial Highways in a sour tone, “I was cursing you to blazes. My man of business present at the very meal his hostess is poisoned! And that’s not all. When they did land that young swine, why the hell did you go staking him to the best counsel in England? He might have got off. How would that have looked for you?”
“Decent gestures do no harm,” pronounced Lord Limpsfield largely. “You’re a good fellow, Nick, and with the jackpot you’ll haul in over this show you’ll never miss an odd thousand, will you? No, no, I always say vindictiveness don’t pay! Look at Ryman. Would he be doing his stretch if he hadn’t rounded on the smaller fry?” A chair creaked as he rose. “Oh, well, it’s all turned out nicely, though I still think it was a stroke of luck to have the secretary out of the way before the trial began. Do you know, I’ve had to turn down a Sunday story headed:—‘The Mystery Woman—Victim or Accomplice?’ That’ll show you. What’s your theory about her?”
“I’ve no theory,” said Blundell, and his voice shook with some unclassifiable emotion. “All I say is I was properly taken in by the pair of ’em, him and her—blast their skins!”
There were sympathetic throat-clearings which struck a final blow to Diana’s hopes. That these three men were associates in an illegal venture meant nothing. She was left exactly where she had been an hour or more ago, too wretched now to attend closely to the coming remarks.
“Ryman,” mused Sir Norbury. “Fifteen years was his dose. We’ll get the same if this deal ever springs a leak. What’ll you do with the papers overnight, Blundell?”
“Put ’em in my private safe—where no burglar’ll get his hands on ’em,” Blundell said with a touch of his schoolboy satisfaction. “Want to see me do it? Then come along.”
The safe, similar to the one in Rose’s bedroom, was let into the wall behind his bed, as Diana had discovered. She waited, therefore, for the mingled footsteps to die away before shifting her cramped muscles; but noticing that the sounds seemed to halt within the library she raised her head from her knees to listen again. To her horror the crack of light over the bookshelves was swiftly widening. Good God, they were coming in here!
There was no time to think. Springing up, she fled, banged her head against some sharp obstruction in midair, reeled dizzily and missed the stairs. At the same instant the ceiling-globe burst into glare, a startled oath sounded behind her, and turning she met a shower of loose papers. In the briefest possible moment she got a nightmare impression of blanched faces peering in, of a square hole yawning where solid wall had been, and of a squat figure surging past to block her exit. That figure was Blundell’s, but by a fantasy of terror it seemed to her no man, but a lion, lowering, ready to attack. An old lion—turned man-killer. . . .
“You’re at it, too, are you?”
Half-suffocated, he had spoken these words straight into her face. Instantaneously her vision cleared. Triumphant with understanding, she met the pale, blazing eyes so close to her own and made her announcement.
“Now I see what happened,” she said steadily. “She heard what I heard, so you killed her. My mother, too. You murdered them both, to keep them quiet.”