When I finally left Burgess, I felt at once over-stimulated and exhausted. It had been a long and wretched day. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, so I went up to my room and went to bed. But I could not sleep, and finally I got up and took two sleeping-pills.
These put me into a very heavy sleep and I began to dream—vague and incoherent fragments of dreams that finally assumed a sequence. I was rushing, we were all rushing, and it appeared that we were afraid of missing our ship. We all made it, though: all of us at the house-party, and Giles, and Paul Meadows, and my old friend Lady Vicky and others I didn’t know or couldn’t remember. We all continued to run, this time round and round the deck. It seems to have been a race of some sort. Then we all had spears, we were carrying them in our right hands, grasped in the middle and pointing outwards. And then they were all chasing me, the spears outstretched, and finally they caught me and formed a circle of lethal points around me and I could not move. It was some sort of a trial. I don’t remember exactly what I was accused of, but I knew I was innocent. I tried to say so, and opened my mouth to speak, but my voice was gone and I couldn’t. I could see by their faces that they had found me guilty. I stood there helpless for a moment, and then broke through the circle and began to run.
I was on land now and running, with all of them in full pursuit. It had snowed heavily and was still snowing, and I floundered through the heavy, sticky snow. Then I was running up a kind of circular wooden staircase, with narrow, winding stairs. The snow was coming down thickly and the steps were slippery. I kept climbing up and up and the circle of stairs grew narrower and narrower, and suddenly I slipped and fell through the deep, thick, suffocating blankets of snow…
I gave a sudden, sharp jump in bed and woke. I was icy cold and shaking, and my forehead was wet. I woke with the mood of the nightmare still upon me, frightened and depressed. I looked at my watch—twenty minutes to six. The sleeping-pills had left me feeling heavy-headed, but I had no wish to go back to sleep. I put the bedside light on and tried to read. But I soon gave it up and just lay there quietly.
The day before had been so upset and confused that I had had little time to think about Uncle Hugh. I had the time now; and I thought with sadness of his unnecessarily early death. He was a man who had enjoyed life enormously. It was true, of course, that I had seen the best side of him. Those who had been the victims of his driving force or of his implacable egoism and self-confidence undoubtedly would feel differently about the matter.
I began to think of what my uncle’s death would mean to me. In essence, it meant that I would have to reorganize my entire life—or rather, to organize it, since heretofore I had worked for him, lived in his house, and to a large extent regulated my life by his. At least, this had been the case for the past few years. Before that lay the war, now an almost forgotten interlude; and Cambridge and school and childhood. The future looked endless and without form. Yet somehow I had to find something to do with myself, some place to live, and something to look forward to. At six o’clock that morning, the difficulties seemed formidable. And when I thought of all that must come first—the investigation into Uncle Hugh’s death, his funeral, the reading of his will, the arrangements about the town house and Feathers and the staff—my depression grew even more pronounced.
About eight, when the maid brought me my morning tea, I got out of bed, bathed, put on a dark costume and went downstairs. I was drinking coffee when Tay joined me at the breakfast table. He ate quickly and joined me when I left the dining-room to go into the library. No one else had come down yet.
I had known Tay nearly all my life. As far back as I can recall, he was always there, at Uncle Hugh’s elbow. He was clever, self-effacing, reserved, and rather dry, with an enormous capacity for work and a shrewd business head. He had been Uncle Hugh’s personal assistant for the best part of twenty years. So far as I could tell, it was a highly successful arrangement on both sides, though—since neither man was an emotional sort—I never thought it was a deep and devoted friendship. As I said to Anne, on one occasion when she invited me to lunch and tried to persuade me to talk about Tay and the business (Anne had asked whether I thought Tay really interested in what was best for the firm), “I’m certain he’s interested in what’s best for Tay. And what’s best for the business is best for Tay.”
My Uncle William and Aunt Mildred, of course, hated him. They were fanatically ambitious for their children and from the time Andrew had gone into the business they had expected him to take Tay’s place with Uncle Hugh. My Uncle William was somewhat more realistic about the matter than my aunt. He knew how useful Tay was—and how firmly lodged in his place. So in the early days, my uncle satisfied himself with pinpricks and small jabs at Tay, but nothing more.
Then came the war. Andrew did very well, got a staff job, and finished with the rank of acting lieutenant-colonel. He returned to the business six years older, used to responsibility, and in no mood to resume his former junior role. Uncle Hugh, who was well aware of Andrew’s ability, promoted him rapidly. But he did not make Andrew his personal assistant. Tay remained precisely where he was, aware of the situation and firmly entrenched. Andrew began to work quietly at dislodging him. And my Uncle Hugh watched it all, I presume; but he said nothing, and he did nothing.
Now there were in fact not one but two battles in progress or, more accurately, the struggle had two sides. Andrew wanted to supplant Tay as my uncle’s personal assistant. But he wanted it chiefly because he felt it would put him in a good position to control the entire business after my uncle’s death. And the crux of the situation was that no one had any idea—or so I believed—of how my uncle had left or divided the voting shares of the company. Once, when I was discussing it with Charles, I had said that Tay would be wise to try to manœuvre Andrew out of the business altogether, since if he did not, he was bound to lose. But Charles had disagreed.
“Because Andrew’ll inherit some of the shares and Tay has very few?” he had asked. “Don’t be too sure. My father can tie up control of that company any way he likes. It has nothing to do with the way he leaves his money. He might separate ownership from control completely. He could. Even supposing he divides his property among all of us, why do you assume we’d vote with Andrew rather than with Tay? Would you—if you came to the conclusion that Tay could run the business better than Andrew—and so make more profit for you?”
“I don’t know. But with Uncle William and what Daphne will have and Andrew himself——”
“My father,” Charles had said, “is incalculable. That is, in some ways. He’s perfectly capable of encouraging a really vicious rivalry between the two of them—ostensibly on the theory that whoever wins out is better fit to run things. He’s sixty—and it wouldn’t surprise me to see him in active control still at eighty. I’m sorry for both of them. How lucky I was to select a career in the Foreign Office!”
I myself had always got along well with Tay. After I went to work for my uncle, I naturally saw him often. Occasionally we went out to dinner together, or to the theatre—Tay had never married. Tay’s behaviour had always been very correct. He had not discussed the business with me and he had made no attempt to draw me into the struggle.
Naturally, the family did not believe this and saw what my aunt called “Tay’s advances” to me as an attempt to enlist my support. They took various counter-measures. Anne invited me frequently to their country house. Daphne (whose mother was afraid I might be planning to marry Tay) was stimulated to try to introduce me to suitable husbands. (This campaign went on the rocks early because of our different interpretations of the word “suitable”. Besides, the last thing I wanted was to marry again.)
None of this had escaped Tay. He had taken it all with equanimity. For all I know, he may even have enjoyed it. He had been somewhat quieter than usual this week-end and since my Uncle Hugh’s death, his silence had become even more marked. Under present conditions, of course, he had a lot to think about.
We sat in the library not saying much for a few minutes. After a time, Tay asked me if I knew what arrangements were planned. “Burgess didn’t give me any idea last night. Did he say anything to you?”
I shook my head. “I imagine we can have the funeral whenever we choose. Wednesday perhaps—and from here. But that’s only a guess. It’s really up to Charles to settle things, isn’t it?”
“If he wishes to,” said Tay, precisely.
“Well, if he doesn’t, I presume he’ll delegate someone else.”
Tay agreed and seemed to lose interest. Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Christy, have you really no idea of the contents of your uncle’s will?”
It was the first time he had ever discussed such a subject with me. Considering all the factors, I thought it a surprising question. “It would be much more logical for me to ask you that.”
Tay smiled faintly. “I haven’t. Ironic, isn’t it?”
It was all of that. I said nothing, and Tay again changed the subject. “Christy—you’re fond of Giles?”
“Fond of Giles? Why?”
“Let me put it another way. You’d protect him if you could?”
“Protect him against what?”
“Suspicion of murder.”
“Giles?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like conversational tennis,” I said. “What are you trying to say?”
“That Giles was here in the house Saturday night. I heard him talking to your uncle. What’s more, I heard him threaten to kill your uncle.”
I did not bother to say that I didn’t believe it. “Then why didn’t you tell Burgess yesterday?”
“I was thinking whether I would or not. Let me put it to you, Christy. If Giles were known to have sneaked into the house last night, he’d be the most logical suspect—and not only because of his unconventional call. He’s the one of you who’s known to have hated your uncle. Motive and opportunity—the police would very quickly start searching for the means.”
“Then why didn’t you tell the police?”
“Several reasons. I’m very sorry your uncle’s dead—on personal and other grounds. I haven’t decided yet whether having his murderer caught and having a huge public trial and scandal would serve any purpose. It can’t help your uncle any more, and I don’t know that it can help anyone else. It certainly won’t help the business.”
“Then where does my protecting Giles come in?”
“I said I hadn’t made up my mind. I was fond of your uncle and I don’t like the idea of a murderer getting off scot-free. If I decide to tell the police, I shall explain the reason for my hesitation. I think they’ll accept it.”
“In short,” I said, “if I do something for you, you’ll decide not to tell the police you heard Giles on Saturday night.”
“Exactly.” He was as calm and as friendly as if we had been making plans to go to the theatre together. Yet the only correct name for what he was doing was blackmail.
“And that is?”
“That you vote your shares my way—instead of Andrew’s.” I stared at him. “But you don’t know I have any shares!”
“No. But I’d guess you do. Your uncle liked you and he thought you had common sense. Anyway, it’s a chance I’m willing to take. If he hasn’t left you any voting shares, it’s my loss.”
“But—you’ve only my word I’ll do it—if I do say yes. How d’you know I won’t go back on it?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think you would. As I’ve just said, it’s my risk.”
“Some people,” I said, “would call this blackmail—a polite form of it, but blackmail just the same.”
“And they’d be right,” said Tay. “Do you imagine your uncle, in the course of making his fortune, hasn’t done a good deal worse? Not to mention what he’d have been willing to do for the Freemen. Do you think Andrew would stick at something so small? Come, Christy—you’re not naïve. You know all this as well as I do.”
I did, of course. I felt heavy-headed and incapable of clear thinking. But I thought that at least I must see Giles before I refused Tay’s offer. I said, “All right. I’ll vote them your way,” and left the library before he could say anything more.
Luckily, everyone seemed occupied with various concerns that morning. So about eleven o’clock I strolled unnoticed down to the greenhouse. There was a path near it which led down the hill, and one could find one’s way over the fields to Redcot with a good chance of being unobserved. Once in Redcot, I found the cottage Bella had rented without much trouble.
Bella herself—there could be no mistaking her from the description Paul had given me—came to the door. She did not invite me in, but just stood there looking at me. “My name’s Christina Fane,” I said. “I’ve come to see my cousin Giles.”
“He’s not here.”
“Then I’ll wait. Perhaps I could wait inside.”
She still stood in the doorway. “I don’t know when he’ll be here.”
I said, impatiently, “Giles may be in trouble. I’ve come to see him about it. Now don’t——” But at that moment, Giles himself came down the stairs and asked who was there, and Bella had no option but to say, “It’s your cousin,” and to let me in.
Giles was clearly surprised to see me. “And what brings you here?” he asked, after saying hello. His voice and his eyes were both wary.
“I want to talk to you—alone.”
“You can speak freely in front of Bella. I don’t have any secrets from her.”
“Well, I do. I want to talk to you alone.”
Giles stared at me a moment, and then asked Bella if she’d mind. She evidently did mind, but she went away and Giles and I were alone. He was wearing corduroy trousers and a pullover. He looked thinner than usual and rather pale—and more like Uncle Hugh than ever. I said, abruptly, “I came to ask you what you were doing in the house the night Uncle Hugh died.”
His eyes met mine unblinkingly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Christy. I wasn’t at Feathers. You’re dreaming.”
“The police have found your cigarette-holder,” I said, bored. “It’s only a matter of time before they find out whose it is. Furthermore, Tay happened to be in the corridor while you were shouting at Uncle Hugh—he heard you threaten to kill him. So you may as well give up that line.”
Giles, not being a fool, did give it up. “You knew the cigarette-holder was mine and you didn’t tell the police?”
“I haven’t told them yet. I wanted to talk to you first. Tay hasn’t told them for—well, for reasons of his own. Incidentally, from the unsurprised way you spoke of the police, it’s apparent you know Uncle Hugh was murdered. How do you know?”
“Village gossip. I suppose it came through from the servants at Feathers. Anyway, it’s an open secret around here.”
It sounded reasonable enough. I said, “Is it also an open secret just how he was killed?”
“No,” said Giles. “The stories seem a bit garbled. I gather, though, that he was poisoned.”
“Do you know with what?”
“No. Do you?”
“Yes,” I said. “But never mind that. Do you want to tell me what you were doing at Feathers on Saturday night?”
“I went to talk to our uncle. Why? You think I killed him, Chris?”
“I don’t know. You could kill someone, I know that. And you hated Uncle Hugh enough for that. But whether you did or not—did you, Giles?”
“Hoping to surprise me into an admission? Naturally I’ll say I didn’t. I do say so. Do you believe me?”
I looked at his face. It told me nothing. “I thought if I saw you and talked to you,” I said, slowly, “that I’d be able to come to some conclusion, one way or another. I can’t. I just don’t know.” I paused. “What did you want to talk to him about? And why did you have to pick such an odd time?”
“I went to talk to him about his philosophy of life. I’ve been meaning to for some time. I was out for a walk and thought I’d stroll over.”
“You can try telling that story to the police,” I said, “and see how they like it.”
“Are you going to tell the police?” I could not tell if his question was prompted by anxiety or by curiosity.
“I haven’t decided.”
“What I can’t figure out,” said my cousin, “is your motive in—shall we say, protecting me? And Tay’s is entirely beyond me.”
“You can work it out so that in some way it’ll mean we’re both exploiting the working class,” I said. “On the surface, it looks an impossible connection. But I’m sure you’ll find it.”
He did not answer that. “I suppose things at Feathers are very lively—what with a murder, the civil war between Andrew and Tay, and Aunt Mildred’s conversation. At least there isn’t any political strife, is there? All good Tories together.”
“Charles and I are not Tories. And even you can hardly believe I would discuss politics with Aunt Mildred.”
Giles did not appear to have heard my answer. For he was smiling, a curious smile I had never seen before. It held an odd mixture of hate and triumph. He said, almost under his breath, something I could barely hear. It sounded like “or maybe not. You’d be surprised.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Of course, if you all get too bored with each other, you can always speculate on the contents of Uncle Hugh’s will. I don’t suppose you know what’s in it yet, do you?”
“I don’t. Do you feel he ought to have left you something?”
Giles looked angry. “Don’t be an idiot, Chris. Of course he hasn’t. It didn’t even occur to me that anyone would think that.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure. Uncle Hugh had an odd sense of humour. And if he did—you’ll refuse it with a fine burst of wrath, I hope. I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”
He did not answer. He came with me to the door, and I left him standing there, continuing to look like a much younger edition of the uncle he had hated and—as far as I could tell—would hate all his life.
The path over the hills to Feathers came into the village of Redcot not far from Bella’s cottage. I had just turned into it from the road when I heard steps behind me and my name spoken aloud. I turned to find Bella. Though she had only walked the few yards from her cottage, she was breathing somewhat heavily and her face seemed very flushed. She said, “I’m sorry I was rude just now. You took me by surprise—I couldn’t decide what I’d better do. But I want to talk to you.”
“All right,” I said. “What about?”
“About Giles, naturally. I listened to your conversation. I couldn’t hear all of it, but I heard enough to know Giles may be in trouble and I’m worried about it.”
“He very likely will be in trouble,” I said. “But I don’t see what there is to say about it.”
“They can’t suspect Giles of murdering his uncle.”
“They seem able to suspect the rest of us. Why not Giles?”
“It’s different for you.”
“I don’t see why.”
“They’ll handle you with kid gloves—you all being who you are. They’ll be very careful with any evidence. But Giles—politically, he’s outside the pale. All those people—the doctors, police, judges—they’re worse than Conservatives, most of them—they’re semi-Fascists. Giles wouldn’t have a chance.”
“You’ve been reading too many of Giles’ articles,” I said. “You mustn’t believe everything he writes. I doubt if he does himself. Anyway, no one has to manufacture evidence that Giles was in the house Saturday night. He was.”
She looked genuinely worried and though I didn’t like her, I was almost sorry for her. It must have shown in my face, because she said, “I knew he’d been out that night. I didn’t know he’d gone to Feathers. And he’s been so odd ever since. I know he hated your uncle. He talks about him in jerky sentences, but he doesn’t say much. He seems obsessed with him. I thought he’d be glad he was dead, but—I don’t know. He seems more worried than anything else.”
I couldn’t think of anything suitable to say. “It’s all a bit of a mess.”
She stood there for another moment without speaking and then reverted to her earlier truculent tone. “Well, I just wanted to say—you can’t lynch Giles. I’ll see to that. He has powerful friends, too. Just remember that.”
I checked my spontaneous response to that. The conversation seemed to have reached an impasse. Bella turned and went down the path and I continued on my way to Feathers.
When I came up the path near the greenhouse, I met Andrew. He asked where I’d been.
“For a walk. I got tired of Feathers.”
“Have you been to see Giles?”
“No,” I said.
“I don’t believe you,” said Andrew, flatly.
This rudeness was unlike him, and I looked at him carefully. He looked pale and drawn, and was obviously under great strain. One hand had a bit of sticking-plaster on it. I said, “What’s wrong with your hand?”
“Cut it,” said Andrew, briefly. “Don’t bother to change the subject, Christy. I suppose it doesn’t matter where you’ve been. But what I’m going to ask you now does. What were you talking about to Tay in the library this morning?”
“That also I believe is my business.”
“You were making a deal with him—about the voting of control!”
“All this is a bit premature,” I said. “How can I make a deal when I don’t know I’ve inherited anything? How can anyone, for that matter?”
“You could make a provisional deal. You and Tay’ve been very thick anyway, for the last couple of years. My father warned me, but I never thought you’d favour a stranger over your family. However——”
I interrupted him. “I wish you’d stop jumping to conclusions. I have made no plans for anything so indefinite as the amount and kind of shares Uncle Hugh’s likely to have left me. He’s probably fixed up control of the company in his will anyway, and none of us will have much to say about it.”
“I don’t think so,” said Andrew. “It’s much more likely he wanted the struggle between us to go on. He’d think of it as a form of immortality. Well, he’s dead now—and my sense of humour isn’t his. But Chris—I don’t think you’re seeing this thing plainly.”
He seemed much calmer now. I said, “What am I not seeing clearly?”
“The whole thing. If—as seems evident—Uncle Hugh was murdered, there was some good reason for it. And the person who had the good reason was the murderer.”
“The person who had the best reason was the murderer,” I corrected. “I suppose the police would think most of us had some kind of reason.”
He said, impatiently, “Not strong enough to act upon. We were all his relations, after all. You need a strong motive to murder a member of your own family.”
“And one not so strong if it’s an outsider? I’m not so sure. You can hate the people you’re closely allied to much more.” I thought briefly of Simon. I wondered if one day I could have hated him. I had reason enough to, certainly. But one does not hate or love people for strictly rational reasons.
Andrew said, “I’m not sure people murder from hate. They murder for advantage. And the only person whose immediate advantage it was to have Uncle Hugh dead was—an outsider.”
I said, “Tay? But why?”
“Well,” said my cousin, “Tay’s not young any more, and he’s very, very ambitious. I ought to know—I’ve worked with him long enough. He wanted control and he wanted it now.”
“But even if that’s true,” I objected, “how could he possibly be sure of getting control if Uncle Hugh died?”
“He couldn’t be sure. But it was worth the gamble. I’m younger than he is. I can afford to wait. But he couldn’t.”
“All this is supposition,” I said. “You could build up as strong a case against any of the rest of us.” I thought fleetingly that you could build up an even stronger case against Giles.
“Part of it isn’t supposition, though. Tay is certainly up to something. Look at what happened this morning.”
“What happened this morning?”
“I forgot you weren’t here. We were having coffee about eleven o’clock, when Daphne dropped her handbag. It opened and everything spilled out on to the floor. She rushed to pick it all up, but, of course, the rest of us did, too. She had a big packet of notes in her bag. Robert asked her where she’d got all that money and why she carried it around and she got upset and wouldn’t answer. Then I looked at the notes. I recognized them right off. They were Uncle Hugh’s—he’d drawn them at the business on Friday, just before we left. Everyone began to ask questions at once and Daphne got flustered. First she said Uncle Hugh had given them to her and then she said Tay had. Tay said he hadn’t. Burgess tried to break them down, but they both stuck to their stories. I don’t know why Tay should give her any money, but I’ll take a bet he did. Well, what’s he playing at?”
That I could work out with no difficulty. Why Daphne needed money and how Tay had learned this, I did not know. But his deal with her, I imagined, was the same as with me: he wanted her problematical votes. Andrew’s story shook me, however, for that plus my own conversation with Tay had shown me how far he was willing to go to get control of the business. Perhaps he had been willing, as Andrew said, to go much further.
“I don’t know what he’s playing at,” I said. “I gather Daphne is in trouble of some sort—that’s probably why she went to talk to Uncle Hugh.”
“Yes,” said Andrew. “I’ve tried to get her to talk to me about it, but she won’t. I’d help her if I could—but she knows that.”
“What did Robert say?”
“He’s very angry, of course. He still believes Daphne got the money from Uncle Hugh. He wants to know why she had to go to Uncle Hugh for money in the first place—what she was up to she didn’t want him to know. But Daphne won’t talk. You know how stubborn she can get. I know my sister isn’t a murderer—but I wish she’d stop giving Burgess reasons for being suspicious.”