The funeral went off without incident. There were scores of reporters near the church, but we evaded them without too much difficulty and came back to the house. I would have expected lunch to be the worst of the many strained and uneasy meals we had had together. To my surprise, it turned out to be one of the smoothest—probably because the funeral was over and the reading of the will soon would be. The question of the murder, which had had first place in all our minds since early Sunday morning, had now temporarily been shelved. Uncle Hugh’s solicitor, Edward Temple, had come down for the funeral, and he had lunch with us. It was all very polite and decorous, and even Giles managed to say one or two civil words.
We had selected the dining-room—where we could all sit around the table and take notes if we wished—as the most convenient place for the will to be read. The solicitor sat at the head, his papers and documents in front of him. On one side, Charles sat next to him. Then came myself, Giles, Daphne, and Robert. Uncle William was on Temple’s other side, followed by Aunt Mildred, Andrew, Anne, and Tay. Inspector Burgess sat at the foot of the table. The room was quiet; and Temple, after explaining that it was a valid will, duly witnessed, giving its date and other preliminary information, read out the long and complicated document.
My Uncle Hugh’s sense of humour, his generosity, and his unusual character, were all evident in the provisions of the will. There were generous amounts given to charity, to the staff at Feathers, and to other people who had served him or worked with him. There then followed the disposal of his personal fortune (after provision for death duties). The first surprise came here. Uncle Hugh left 40 per cent of his personal fortune to Charles, 20 per cent to me, 10 per cent each to Uncle William, Daphne, and Andrew—and 10 per cent to be held in trust until their twenty-fifth birthdays to any children Giles might have. The library was divided between Charles and me, the London house and all my uncle’s personal belongings went to his son—and Feathers went to me.
But more was to come. The tension around the table was mounting as Temple, in his precise, unemotional voice, read out my uncle’s disposal of the non-voting shares in the company. Half went to Charles, 25 per cent to me, and the rest went equally to the children of Daphne, Andrew, and—again—any children Giles might have. I was aware of Giles’ outraged but suppressed protest, and of Burgess’ careful eyes seeing all of us and our reactions.
We came at last to the voting shares of the company. Here was my uncle’s final and most enjoyable projection. He must have savoured it fully. He divided the shares into four equal parts: one to Charles, one to me, one to Andrew, and one to Daphne’s children, to be held in trust for twenty years and to be voted by Tay. Any voting shares in the company held by outsiders were negligible and widely scattered. With Andrew and Tay at loggerheads—as they were—it meant in essence that final control rested with Charles’ votes—or with mine; or that, should Charles and I wish to act together, we could probably put in anyone we chose to run the company.
I looked at the faces around the table. Both Tay and Andrew were clearly appalled. Both of them had been hoping that at least the thing would finally be settled, one way or the other. To have the situation continued—to see the possibility of its continuing for years, even decades—must have seemed intolerable. Giles, though for different reasons, looked almost equally appalled, and I could well imagine what some of the press unfriendly to him would make of it: “Left-winger’s Unborn Children Inherit Fortune”. My uncle had undoubtedly relished just that sort of headline—in anticipation—though that was probably not the only reason he had left money to Giles’ children. He had, after all, not discontinued Giles’ allowance; it had been Giles who had refused to accept any money.
Uncle William and Aunt Mildred looked outraged, both at the possibility of future conflict in the company and at what they considered to be the slights to their children—and the ill-judged favouring of Charles and me. Both of them had said so often that Andrew was obviously the son Uncle Hugh had wanted that they were shocked at his leaving more property to his son than to anyone else. For some inexplicable reason, too, my aunt had been convinced that Uncle Hugh would leave Feathers either to Uncle William or to Andrew. The thought that it had been left to me—which surprised me as much as it did her—was difficult for her to bear without comment.
Charles, the greatest beneficiary of all this, sat there with an absolutely expressionless face. But at his first moment of realization—when he first became aware that his father had left him a quarter-share in the company plus all the other property—he had flushed to the roots of his hair. I had not seen Charles blush since he was a boy of sixteen, and I could not even guess what had moved him so much.
Temple finished his reading, removed his glasses, and sat back with a self-satisfied smile. My Uncle William was the first to speak. “But—that will’s an outrage!” he spluttered. “It’s fantastic!”
Temple, who had been polishing his glasses, put them on again and looked at my uncle. “I thought it an entirely correct and intelligent will,” he said, coldly. “Very generous, too.”
Uncle William started to speak again, but Andrew stopped him. “My father is a bit surprised at some of the provisions,” he said. “I think we all are. It makes some complications as regards—control of the company. Still, we’ll probably work it out satisfactorily—especially since there is no doubt at all that the will is entirely valid and makes exactly the provisions Uncle Hugh intended. I agree with you, sir, that it is very generous.”
“Intelligent and generous!” said Giles. “You’ll have civil war at that company for twenty years and that’s your idea of wisdom and generosity! What did Hugh do to you—hypnotize you? And leaving money to any children I might have! Well, at least I can stop that. I can refuse to have them accept it.”
“I’m afraid you’re entirely mistaken, Mr. Randall,” said Temple, his voice even colder than before. “That money is for your children, when they reach the designated age. Should they wish to refuse it then, that is entirely their own affair, and you can, of course, influence them in any way you like. But you can’t refuse it for them.”
“And somehow I don’t think they will,” said Andrew, with some malice.
My aunt was still very much offended. She would no doubt continue to be for some time. She said, addressing no one in particular, “Well, since the police still haven’t said we could leave, I presume we are trespassing on Christy’s hospitality—that is, if she will continue to have us.”
Her voice was almost venomous. Anne looked at me with some amusement. I said, “Naturally, you will all remain until the police have finished their investigation.”
“And, of course, you will now see that the servants are properly instructed.”
“Yes.”
Charles apparently decided that the exhibition of family manners had gone far enough. He thanked Mr. Temple for his trouble and added that he hoped the solicitor would continue to handle his own legal affairs and those of any other member of the family who wished him to do so. My cousin said he presumed that Mr. Temple would let anyone know of any documents which needed signatures or any other technical arrangements which it would be necessary to make regarding the transfer of property. Temple was mollified by this civil approach. He said a few polite words in reply, and the meeting was over. Everyone went off, Burgess included, and I was left with Temple. I asked if he would like to stay to tea.
“It’s very kind of you, Mrs. Fane,” he said. “But I really must get back to London.”
“Raikes will take you to the station.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fane. You know, you needn’t feel any concern over inheriting this house. Your uncle always intended to leave it to you. He thought you liked it.”
“He was right. I do. It’s unexpected, though. I shall probably take some time getting used to the idea that it belongs to me.”
Temple did not reply. When he next spoke, he seemed embarrassed. “That will was some years old, as you know,” he said. “I don’t know whether your uncle planned to change it or not. The police came to see me in London. They spoke of a large gift he might have been planning to make to—an organization. He never spoke to me of it. But it is true that he did ask a number of questions about the form such gifts might take—and there is no doubt that there would have been far-reaching effects, had he carried out his idea.”
“Yes,” I said. “Do you think it would have damaged the business badly?”
“I’m not really qualified to judge. My own opinion would be that it would, however. You see, he was talking in terms of a big gift. That would have meant turning over a lot of capital and couldn’t have been good for the business. Besides, there’s something else. The English react oddly, you know. I don’t think this idea of Sir Hugh’s would have gone down well either with the business community or with the man in the street. The effect of a good deal of ill-will on the business might have been considerable.”
“Naturally,” I said.
This merely confirmed what Gresham had said. If Uncle Hugh had lived to make the Freemen the large gift he had contemplated, if he had become publicly active in the organization as he had planned, his financial position and that of the company might both have been badly shaken. Had this happened, all of us would have been much worse off than we were going to be as matters stood. Presumably none of us had checked these facts with Temple. But most of us were capable of working them out for ourselves, in general if not in detail. There was no doubt that from the point of view of his legatees, Uncle Hugh had picked a very suitable moment to die. If motive alone constituted grounds for an accusation of murder, no doubt all of us could stand in the dock together.
At that point, I thought the party at Feathers resembled nothing so much as an Italian opera taking place on a large stage. Small groups congregated in various spots, discussing the will and its probable effects. Andrew and Uncle William stood together in one corner of the library, no doubt discussing the next step as regards the business. Aunt Mildred had taken Daphne off to her bedroom, to expatiate on the iniquities of her late brother-in-law. Charles and Anne, in another corner of the library, stood looking out of the window and having a civil talk in which neither appeared to be much interested. Tay and Robert were exchanging neutral remarks, and Giles was sitting in a large chair, saying nothing at all.
When I came in, Charles turned to me with a grin. “The one thing we really need is a drink, Christy. It’s your house—do you approve of the idea?”
“Yes,” I said. I was going to ring for the butler, but Charles stopped me and said he would fetch them himself. Anne said to me, “Well, what are you going to do—now that you’ve got money and this huge house? Travel? Go in for good works? Settle down at Feathers and become the grande dame of the neighbourhood?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t got that far yet. Have you any suggestions?”
“My family,” said Anne, “distrusts women on their own—especially women with a lot of money. If this were my family, they’d be gathered together working out a way to get you married off soon—to keep you out of trouble.”
I smiled. “Would anyone in your family leave a will like that?”
“I don’t suppose so. By the next generation, though, none of you will. You’ll be very much like us then.”
“And what would your family do,” I asked, “about the situation as it now stands?”
She did not pretend to misunderstand. “They’d take it for granted that a family sticks together. That’s the only way to get on top and stay there. The solution’s quite simple, after all.”
“You mean Charles and I should both throw our support to Andrew and get rid of Tay? And then let Andrew take over?”
“Of course. Charles doesn’t want to run the company—at least, he’s never given any signs of it. Neither, I take it, do you. Tay has plenty of money, so there’s no problem there. He engaged in a gamble and it didn’t come off. Well, he’ll live through it.”
In a way, she was perfectly right. But whether Charles and I threw our support either to Andrew or to Tay, the situation would not be satisfactory. Men as ambitious as those two would hardly be satisfied with a control that depended on the good will of either Charles or me, even assuming we both acted together. In the beginning, in gratitude, they might resolve to be entirely fair and just to us. Gradually, however, they would try to work out some way of gaining permanent control that was not dependent on either of us. Nor could I blame them if they did. When one’s life is wrapped up in something, it is difficult to feel that it could be taken away at any moment by an outsider. I could hardly ask Anne whether she thought Tay or Andrew more likely to run the company more efficiently or more likely to be fair to his supporters. Andrew was my cousin, even though we were not particularly close. Tay had more experience in running the business. It was not as simple a decision for me as Anne seemed to think it should be.
“Just for the sake of discussion,” I said, “suppose it didn’t work that way. What would you advise Andrew to do?”
“To get out,” said Anne, promptly. “I don’t see that there’s a difficult decision to make at all. Either you and Charles support him—as, of course, I think you should—and he stays. Or else you refuse or are dubious—in which case he gets out. Andrew has his own money now and he’s very able. He can build up a business of his own. It may not reach the proportions of your Uncle Hugh’s, but at least it would be his own.”
Or, translated: make up your mind, Christy. If Andrew can’t have control, he can always leave. Tay is getting on, and he isn’t well. If you back Tay and Andrew leaves, Tay may have to leave as well in a couple of years. He’s hardly likely to be active in the business more than ten years, and then you and Charles can look for someone else. Whether you can find someone as capable and as devoted to all our interests as Andrew is another matter. But whatever you do, I shan’t turn a hair, and I shall advise Andrew not to either.
I had no time to answer, for Charles came back with the drinks, and a general reshuffle took place. Aunt Mildred and Daphne reappeared, and Daphne and Anne went into the garden with their glasses in hand. Aunt Mildred, who did not believe in drinking “under the circumstances”, appropriated the desk to write some letters. Robert, Charles, and Uncle William went off to play billiards. Giles, who would have preferred to remain in the library, but would not stay in the same room with Aunt Mildred willingly, took a book and went off. I went into the kitchen to see Mrs. Rapp.
For some reason, Mrs. Rapp and the cook had decided that an elaborate dinner was in order. Whether the housekeeper was celebrating her release from nagging by my aunt or whether she just felt a good dinner would have a fortunate psychological effect, I don’t know. In any event, she presented to me a long and complicated menu and suggested that I might care to choose the wines, having a look at the wine-cellar as I did so.
I realized with surprise that my uncle’s very impressive wine-cellar at Feathers was now my property. I doubt whether any member of our family, before Uncle Hugh, had ever drunk any wine outside of an occasional and very bad tawny port. But Uncle Hugh himself had liked all aspects of good living, including wine, and had contrived to learn a good deal about the subject during his life. His cellar was extensive and well chosen.
My own taste in wine was similar to that of my late uncle. So, together with the butler, I spent an absorbed hour, selecting the wines for dinner, looking over the stock, and listening to his grave suggestions for future purchases. Sanderson appeared to take it for granted that the establishment at Feathers would go on precisely as it had during my uncle’s lifetime, and as I had not yet made up my mind on this point, I did not contradict him. We worked our way gradually to the back and darkest section of the cellar, and were about to conclude our tour when Sanderson caught sight of a small, yellowish paper tucked in between the bottles. He reached out, took it, opened it, and read it. Then he frowned in perplexity, read it again, and handed it to me without a word.
The paper was a telegram. It was dated Saturday and addressed to my cousin Andrew. The message was completely incomprehensible. It had been sent from London, and read: “George tricky stop suggest Peter Able.” It was unsigned.
It was not difficult to work out what had happened. That telegram had apparently arrived for Andrew and he had not wanted it to be found. Presumably he also had not wanted it to be destroyed. The house was filled with policemen, and there was no guessing when they might decide to make a search. They had made several already. So Andrew had apparently decided to hide the telegram in what he had every reason to think a safe place, and to retrieve it later. Normally, it would have been a good choice, for no one went into the wine-cellar but the butler and Uncle Hugh. The recess in which the telegram had been hidden might well go unvisited for weeks. It was Andrew’s bad luck that it had not. What the telegram meant and why he had secreted it, I did not even bother to consider. That was Burgess’ job; and I did not hesitate. I took the telegram to him directly and explained to him the circumstances under which it had been found.
Burgess read the telegram several times. It obviously made no more sense to him than it had to me. “You’ve no idea what it means, Mrs. Fane?”
“No.”
“George tricky stop suggest Peter Able.” He considered it. “Sounds a bit like code, doesn’t it? Do you know anyone called Peter Able?”
“No.”
“I wonder if your cousin Andrew does?”
I did not answer. Burgess put the telegram in his pocket. “I wonder if you’d mind showing me where you found it. And by the way, Mrs. Fane, can I rely on you not to say anything to anyone about it?”
“Yes,” I said. “You can. Perhaps you’d better have a word with Sanderson, though.”
When I had shown Burgess where I had found the telegram, and left him in the wine-cellar, I came back upstairs. I noticed that the afternoon post had been placed on the hall table. There was a large pile of letters, many of them notes of condolence to various members of the family. My cousin Daphne had picked up some of the letters and was going through them with violent haste. I said, “What d’you think you’re doing?”
She jumped at the sound of my voice. “Oh, it’s you, Christy. I’m—expecting a letter—it must be here somewhere. I thought I’d—well, I’m rather in a hurry to get it.”
“So much in a hurry,” I said, “that you seem to have taken leave of your common sense. You know that Burgess expects to see the post before anyone else. He’d think it very odd if he could see you now. As a matter of fact, he thinks your entire behaviour odd, and I agree with him. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
Daphne was still going through the letters frantically. “He hasn’t any right——”
“Do stop talking like your mother,” I said. “This is an investigation for murder and he has every right. In fact, he’s been extraordinarily decent to you so far, but it can’t go on much longer. As to your letter, if it’s an innocent, ordinary one, there’s no point in making such a fuss. And if—as I suppose—it isn’t, there’s certainly no sense in your going out of your way to call attention to it.”
“No sense at all,” said Burgess. He was standing behind us and he put out his hand for the letter Daphne was holding. In a daze, she handed it to him. Burgess did not give her time to have hysterics. He began to speak instantly, and his voice was sharp and incisive.
“Mrs. Alison,” he said, “I dislike bullying anyone and I’ve been hoping that you would manage to use a little common sense. So far, you haven’t—and I haven’t the time to wait much longer. I know all about you and Philip Denton, so that needn’t worry you. Now will you come along and answer my questions like a reasonable person or shall I get your husband and your parents along and see if they can help make some sense of things?”
His cool matter-of-factness, coupled with the threat in his last sentence, had an effect. Daphne looked from him to me. Then her shoulders sagged in a defeated way and she said, “Well, if you know that much—all right. Do you mind if Christy comes, too?”
“She seems to be present at a large number of interviews,” said Burgess, dryly. “No, I don’t mind.”
In the small sitting-room, Burgess opened Daphne’s letter. When he had read it, he handed it to her. She read it listlessly and gave it back to him. Burgess handed it to me. The letter was on ordinary writing-paper and was very brief. The writer acknowledged Daphne’s letter posted Saturday and said he would expect the sum she mentioned within ten days. That was all. It was not signed.
“Well,” said Burgess, “it’s a simple enough explanation. I might have guessed. How much have you given this chap already? And how much more does he want?”
“I’ve given him £100,” said my cousin, dully. “He wants another £1,000.”
Burgess said something under his breath. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“He said—if I did, he’d tell my husband.”
Burgess sighed. “Mrs. Alison, that’s what a police force is for. We have ways of dealing with blackmailers—we’ve had a lot of experience with them. What has he got of yours—letters, something?”
“Letters,” said Daphne, in a low voice. “And he saw us once in a hotel—we’d registered—as if we were married.”
Burgess sighed again. “What’s his name, Mrs. Alison?”
My cousin, who had been quiet and apathetic up to this point, was startled into panic. “I can’t tell you! I won’t tell you! You’ll go after him and he’ll tell Robert. You didn’t—I won’t——” She burst into tears, and I got up and went over to her.
Burgess waited until she was calmer. “Mrs. Alison,” he said, “I have to remind you again that this is an investigation for murder. You are being unnecessarily obstructive and I’m not in the mood for much more of it. However—I’ll let the man’s name go for now. I’ve a good deal else to discuss with you. But I plan to do it now,” he added, his voice taking on a sharp note which made Daphne raise her head and look at him.
She made an effort. “I’m sorry. As long as I don’t have to tell you his name——What else do you want to know?”
“The story. You had an affair with a man called Philip Denton. Then about two or three months ago, he went off to America. You can take it up at that point.”
“Yes,” said Daphne. “Well, he wanted me to go to America with him. But I—I didn’t. I couldn’t. Then, after he’d been gone for about a week, this man began to blackmail me. I was only able to give him small sums—ten pounds, twenty pounds. He kept threatening to tell Robert if I didn’t get more. I had another letter from him on Friday, just before we came to Feathers, and I didn’t have time to answer it. It made me—desperate. So I wrote him on Saturday morning, just before we went to play golf. I mailed it in the village, when we stopped for cigarettes.”
“What did you say in the letter?”
“I didn’t know what to say. I was—I didn’t know what to do. So I just said I was staying at Feathers and if he’d give me ten days, I’d give him the money he’d asked for. That’s all.”
“Did you tell him you planned to get it from your uncle?”
“No.”
“But you assumed he’d think so, since you were staying at Feathers?”
“I—suppose so.”
“I see,” said Burgess. “Now, when you went to see your uncle that night, did you plan to tell him? Or did you plan to get the money out of him without telling him?”
Daphne was a poor liar. She started several sentences, but they must have sounded unconvincing even to her, because she gave them up after a few words and sat silent. Burgess said he was still waiting and my cousin tried again.
“I went to his room—Gresham was right about that. I didn’t think of telling him about the—the whole thing. I was afraid to—I couldn’t tell him a thing like that. I didn’t know what he’d do. I just said I needed some money and he wanted to know why. And I said I couldn’t tell him.”
“What was he like when you saw him? Did he seem in any way unusual—disturbed, unhappy, anything out of the ordinary?”
“No. He was much nicer than I’d thought he’d be. He said I’d obviously got into some trouble and I’d better tell him about it. He’d see what he could do to help me. I said I couldn’t, and he said I should just go back to my room and think it over and we’d talk about it to-morrow—Sunday, that is.”
“Then you were telling the truth? He didn’t give you the money, Mr. Tay did?”
“Yes.”
“In return for your promise to vote any shares you might get his way?”
Daphne reddened. “Yes.” She did not ask him how he had known.
“If you hadn’t dropped that money, you were planning to send it to your blackmailer?”
“Yes.”
Burgess’ voice was as pleasant and easy as if he had been discussing the weather. “What did you mean by the letter you wrote? I mean, how did you plan to get the money you promised him? Were you so sure your uncle would give it to you?”
“I wasn’t sure. I thought—he might. But I just wrote it to keep him quiet for a while, so I could think of some other way to get it.”
Daphne did not seem to realize the implications her words might have. I forced myself to listen to what Burgess was saying. He was talking about Philip Denton. “You saw a good deal of him. Where did you go together? What did you do?”
My cousin looked puzzled. “Oh, the usual sort of things. We went to the theatre and to films and out to dinner and to the country, and to Authors’ League lunches.” Her face looked quite different: younger and much happier. It had clearly been a happy time. Then she remembered where she was and what we were discussing, and her momentary joy vanished.
“I see,” said Burgess. “Nothing out of the ordinary, then. Do you know what kind of friends he had, Mrs. Alison?”
She looked even more puzzled. “Just ordinary people. I mean—what do you want to know? They were like anyone else. Well, perhaps not quite—they weren’t as stuffy as most of the people we know.”
“How d’you mean, stuffy? Politically stuffy?”
“Politically——No. I mean, I don’t know. They didn’t talk politics. That’s why I liked it so much—just jokes and general talk and nothing about what the government was going to do next. It was such a change.” She sounded passionately grateful for the change. I thought that if all this were an act, if Daphne really were a Communist, she was even better at acting than Charles.
“And your friend Denton didn’t talk politics either?”
Daphne appeared to consider. “I think Philip said he voted Conservative in the last election. But I’m not sure. We never talked politics.”
Burgess decided to give it up. “All right, Mrs. Alison. Let’s get back to this business of blackmail. You said you wrote this letter last Friday to quiet the man, so you could think of another way to get it. What way did you have in mind? Were you counting on the money you knew you’d inherit when your uncle died?”
Daphne again looked perplexed. “But I couldn’t know how much I’d inherit. And anyway, everyone expected Uncle Hugh to live for years.”
“Everyone,” said Burgess, “but the person who killed him.”
Daphne was very pale. “You sound as though you thought I killed him.”
“No,” said Burgess, judicially. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying that you had the opportunity and access to the means, like everyone else. And a very powerful motive.”
“But you can’t think I—I—would kill anyone. You must be out of your mind. Why, I——” She again seemed on the verge of tears. I said, “Don’t get so excited, Daphne. The Inspector’s not arresting you. He’s just asking questions.”
She seemed to regain control of herself quite quickly. She said, in her normal voice, “Anyway, you can’t think I murdered him. It’s impossible. And besides, you must know who did it by now. I thought you did know and were just looking for proof.”
It was Burgess’ turn to look surprised. “You thought I knew and was just looking for proof? Whom have you selected as the murderer?”
“Why, Tay, of course. I thought you had, too.”
“Why Tay?”
Daphne looked vague. “I don’t know. He isn’t in the family, is he? I know Andrew thinks it was Tay. And you said the other night that someone had damaged the tyre in Uncle Hugh’s car, the time they all went to Birmingham and I suppose it was the same person who killed him. Well, of course, that was Tay, wasn’t it? So I don’t see——”
I caught my breath. Burgess’ voice was very quiet. “What makes you think it was Tay who damaged the tyre?”
“Well,” said Daphne, still vaguely, “I just thought he did, that’s all. That Sunday night we were all at dinner at Uncle Hugh’s and I met Tay in the corridor. His hands were all dirty. He said something about having broken a flowerpot and that he was going to wash his hands. But when you talked about the tyre the other night, I thought you knew he had done it.”
“Mrs. Alison,” said Burgess, in a very sharp voice, “why didn’t you tell me this before?”
Daphne jumped at his voice. She was evidently at the end of her endurance, for she broke into tears. Just then, there was a knock on the door and Robert burst in. He took one look around and said, “What the devil’s going on in here?”
Daphne did not look up. Burgess said, “I’ve just been asking Mrs. Alison a few questions.”
“I realize that. Was he bullying her, Chris?”
“He needed some information,” I said, evasively. “Daphne’s just a bit upset, that’s all. The strain——”
“The strain of lying and keeping things to herself,” said Robert, angrily. “What’s come over you, Daphne? Why don’t you tell me what all this is about and stop acting like the heroine of a second-rate melodrama?”
“Oh, let her alone, Robert,” I said. “She——”
“I have let her alone,” said Robert. “It hasn’t done any good. I know damn well she didn’t murder Uncle Hugh. But I also know she’s been up to something else and I want to know what it is. I suppose if she can tell you and Burgess, she can tell me.”
Robert was normally one of the most punctilious and polite young men, though he was not pompous. His behaviour showed how badly upset he had been by Daphne’s performance during the strain of the last few days. But my cousin did not answer him. She did not even look up. And Robert, after a moment, turned and went out, banging the door behind him. Daphne did not move.
I began to think Robert was right in calling her behaviour suitable for second-rate melodrama. I got up. “Come on up to my room, Daphne,” I said. “If you insist on crying, you can cry there in peace. If you stay here, your mother’s likely to come barging in at any moment.”
The possibility of having to face her mother had an effect on Daphne, and she followed me to my room without comment. Once there, she calmed down considerably. She went into the bathroom to wash her face, and came back to sit down quietly in a chair and light a cigarette. She smoked in silence for a moment or two. Then she said, in a normal voice, “You must think I’m a terrible fool.”
“You’ve certainly given me some reason to think so during the last few days,” I agreed.
To my surprise, she smiled a little. She shook her head. “I didn’t mean that. I meant this affair with Phil. You would think it was silly if you knew all about it—the irresponsible, almost childish way I felt when I was with him, the kind of impossible plans we made. I think I knew they weren’t possible even while we were making them. I couldn’t go off to America with him, I couldn’t leave the children—the whole thing was beyond me.
“You don’t know what it meant to me, Chris—to have a part of my life separate and belonging to me and to no one else. No one knew about it. No one had a share in it. Nothing’s ever been like that for me. My mother’s always been there—watching me, planning for me, knowing everything I did. And my father wasn’t far behind. And all the fuss about Andrew’s future and Tay as a kind of shadow in the background.
“And all that talk—talk about the family and about Giles and Uncle Hugh and Charles and you. It was always going on. If I wasn’t hearing about the family, it was politics—all the time. I hate politics, Chris. I don’t understand it, it bores me. And all Robert’s friends talk about it all the time. I’ve been so bored—for years now, it seems. Being with Phil was the most wonderful escape you can imagine.”
It all came out as if she had been wanting to say it for a long time. I said, “But you wanted to marry Robert, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I did. I’ve been happy with him, too. It’s not that. But he’s tied up with everything else in my life—with my family, with politics, with everything. Phil—don’t you see, Chris?”
“Yes,” I said.
I did see. I saw the instability I had always recognized in Daphne and about which Anne had commented. The whole thing was very complicated. If Daphne, desperately trying to find the money to pay her blackmailer, had thought wistfully of all the money she would have when Uncle Hugh died, it would not have been surprising. It was from there only a step to imagining the freedom of action she could have with money of her own; it would have made everything infinitely easier. She might then even have been able to get a divorce and to join Philip Denton in America, taking the children with her. It would probably have seemed an intoxicating future—much better than the rather dreary life divided between the political and business circles in which Robert moved and her own involved family.
I knew a little about Philip Denton. He was a writer, and a fairly good one. He was personable, lively, and above all, gay. Robert had his points and on the whole was probably a much better husband than Phil would be, but one could hardly have called him gay. Yes, I could see Daphne’s position and she had a powerful motive for murder, a fact which I was certain Burgess had not overlooked.
But I somehow could not connect Daphne with the leakage of information at Uncle Hugh’s plant. Daphne could have got the information and passed it on for money, and Uncle Hugh could have called her in Saturday night because he had discovered it—well, it was possible, but it seemed to me highly unlikely. Someone had to know or guess that Daphne needed money. Daphne had somehow to get access to the papers, assuming—a highly dubious assumption—that she would know them when she saw them. The only way she could see them would be if her father, her brother, Uncle Hugh, or Tay brought such papers home and left them lying around. No, it was too far-fetched. I just could not see it. If Daphne had in fact murdered Uncle Hugh, the trouble at the business could not be involved; and Burgess would have to look for two solutions instead of one.
After Daphne left me, I began to change for dinner. In the stress of the interview between Burgess and Daphne and my talk with Daphne afterwards, I had had no time to consider the other things that Burgess had learned that day: the telegram which Andrew had received and hidden; Tay’s walking around with blackened hands the very evening the tyre had been damaged; Charles’ early morning walk, the morning my uncle had been murdered and his link to the factory through his friend, Bryce. These were additional leads for Burgess, of course; but they seemed to point in so many different directions. I felt so tired and confused that it seemed the day had lasted for ever. I remembered with surprise that it had been only this morning that I had met the young man who wanted to form a Defence Committee for Giles. I decided that I would need more than one drink before dinner to make it possible for me to cope with the evening that lay ahead. But this was purely fatigue and strain; my newfound security was still with me, much as I dreaded what was yet to come.
Though it was early when I came down to the library, Charles was already there, having a drink. He gave me one. He said, “You’ve been spending a lot of time talking to Burgess to-day.”
I could not tell what lay behind the question. “Yes,” I said.
“He’s an intelligent man,” said Charles, musingly. “And he’s gathered a lot of information. He’s still gathering it, as a matter of fact. I just saw the gardener go in to talk to him—and I can’t suppose it’s to do with the way to grow roses or the best way to burn leaves. But I don’t think Burgess has irrefutable proof yet—and that’s what he needs. That leads me to believe he’ll try shock tactics.”
I could not tell whether he was probing for information or not. I said, “Well, he has to do something.”
“Yes. But shock tactics can bring out a good many things that would be better left covered. The—what the sociologists call the fabric of family life, in our family, is sufficiently fragile anyway. I don’t welcome the thought of its being made worse.”
I said, curiously, “I didn’t know the family weighed on you at all, Charles. Is all this because you now consider yourself its titular head?”
He shook his head. “I think it used to weigh on me a bit before the war, but during the war I more or less forgot it. It’s years since I’ve spent this much time with them as a group and I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve begun to think my father has a good deal to answer for. Perhaps that’s being unfair to him. He was a very strong man and he did as he pleased. But the fact that he was what he was made things difficult for many of his relatives. It might even have been the major factor in making them what they are.”
“And you as well?”
“All of us,” said Charles, evenly. “You, too, since we’re being personal.”
“Aunt Mildred?” I said, curiously. “Robert? Anne?”
“Aunt Mildred certainly—and even Robert and Anne a bit, though less so. And, speaking of Robert, what’s the row between him and Daphne?”
I hesitated.
“Do give me credit for a little sense, Chris, even if some of the family are a little short on it. It’s quite evident that Daphne’s in a mess about something that has nothing to do with my father. Whether or not she murdered him is quite beside the point. And Daphne being what she is, it must have something to do with a man. She’s been playing about?”
“Yes,” I said. “And whether it has anything to do with Uncle Hugh’s death I don’t know, but it’s quite possible.”
Charles gave me an odd look. “And that’s all you’re going to say. All right. But remember what I told you, Christy. Don’t get this thing out of proportion, even if you are acting as Burgess’ right-hand man. One of us is most likely a murderer, but we aren’t all therefore capable of committing murder. And by the way,” he added, as we could hear some of the others coming down, “you’re looking tired—but much better than you’ve looked for days.”
I smiled. “You must have been watching me carefully.”
“I have,” said Charles. “I do.”
His tone was entirely serious. I said, with some surprise, “Why?”
This time, Charles smiled. “You were always supposed to be very clever, Chris. You work it out for yourself.”
The others came in then, and helped themselves to drinks. I retired with mine to a corner, and thought over my conversation with Charles. When I was talking to him, he seemed so reasonable that I could not believe he might be a murderer. Yet that proved nothing. When I talked to any of my relatives, they seemed—whatever their personal oddities—unlikely murderers.
We went in to dinner soon after the others came down. It was very good. Aunt Mildred remarked that no doubt the servants were making a special effort for the new owner and neither Daphne nor Robert seemed to enjoy themselves. But everyone else did, and Giles and Charles had an informed discussion about wine, in which—for a miracle—no one mentioned politics. When Charles spoke of a vineyard he had visited in France, for instance, Giles did not discuss the antisocial, non-tax-paying habits of the French wine-growers. Instead, he listened civilly and added a few anecdotes of his own. It was the first time Burgess had seen Giles well behaved and my cousin’s charm, so like Sir Hugh’s, at its best. He must have been surprised.
The amiability and business-as-usual atmosphere of dinner was dissipated by my aunt as we sat in the drawing-room drinking coffee. She turned to Burgess and asked when we would be allowed to leave Feathers. “I have many things to attend to,” she said. “And my husband and my son are needed at the business. No doubt some of the others have their arrangements as well. If you cannot clear up this matter in a satisfactory way, I shall certainly write to the Home Secretary explaining our dissatisfaction with your conduct.”
Burgess said courteously that he understood my aunt’s impatience. He realized that we all must have plans and wish to be able to leave Feathers as soon as possible. “It’s been a long day,” he said, “and I don’t believe a long session now would be the best plan. What I will do now, with your permission, is to tell you certain aspects of the case as I see them. Perhaps that will clear up a few things in everyone’s mind. Then to-morrow morning, we can have a—final session.”
Uncle William said, hoarsely, “Do you mean to say you know—who did it?”
“Let’s say that I have certain ideas, Mr. Mason—and let it go at that for now. So, if you have no objections——”
If there were any, they were not voiced. Burgess began to speak, rather as if he were addressing a University seminar.
“This has been a very complicated case,” he began. “And it became evident to me, in the course of my investigation, that almost everyone present stood to gain financially by this death. This was less important perhaps to some of you”—his eyes wandered around the room—“than to others. Some of you—Mrs. Mason and Mrs. Alison, especially—were in need of fairly large sums of money, which they very much preferred not to get from their husbands.”
He raised his hand to forestall Uncle William’s outburst. Robert made no attempt to speak. Burgess went on. “But money was by no means the only thing involved. A question of power was involved—control of the huge company Sir Hugh had built up. Mr. Tay and Mr. Andrew Mason were directly concerned in it. Both wanted control and both were tired of the struggle. They could perhaps not be blamed for feeling that, with Sir Hugh out of the way, things might—sort themselves out more readily. Nor were they the only ones involved in thinking about the control of the business. Mr. Charles Mason was interested as well, and kept in general touch with what was going on through a good friend of his, a man called Bryce, who works as a scientist in the laboratory.”
Charles leaned forward as if about to speak, then sat back.
“Mr. William Mason was eager for his son to be the next chairman and willing to go to some lengths to achieve this—even to buying up some of the stock behind his brother’s back. Mrs. Fane perhaps did not know any more than the rest of you that she would be in such an important position, as the result of her inheritance, but it is a fact worth bearing in mind.”
No one moved, and no one spoke. Burgess had a clear field.
“We now come to another complication—Sir Hugh’s interest in the Freemen of Britain. I believe that every member of this family was—to a greater or a lesser extent—opposed to Sir Hugh’s connection with that organization. To put it at its simplest, any money given to the Freemen could not go to them. On a more complicated level, many of you disagreed with the aims of the Freemen. Perhaps the person most passionately opposed to Sir Hugh’s activities on political grounds alone was Mr. Randall, who—as you all now know—threatened to murder Sir Hugh, should he judge it necessary.”
It somehow sounded worse, in Burgess’ dispassionate voice, than it had on the two previous occasions I had heard this threat mentioned.
“There is another point. Sir Hugh was, for various reasons, in possession of some information about certain members of his family that they might have preferred to keep hidden. So it is not impossible that he was murdered not directly for his money nor because anyone disapproved of his political activities, but rather because they hoped to prevent Sir Hugh from passing on that particular piece of information.
“I now come to what is in a way the least pleasant part of this investigation. It will probably be news to most of you that Sir Hugh was recently much troubled by the fact—I must ask all of you to refrain from mentioning this to anyone outside this room—that there had been a leakage of some important information from the scientific laboratory at his plant. Sir Hugh had reason to think”—Burgess ignored the universal gasp with which his announcement was greeted—“that this leak was possibly connected with someone high up in the organization or possibly connected with someone very closely related to himself. We may assume, I think, that anyone prepared to sell or to give secrets to—enemy powers—might well be willing to commit murder to keep this fact hidden.”
By this time, everyone was beyond speech. Burgess rose. “Well, I think that is all I shall say right now. I shall be working in my bedroom until quite late. If there is anything anyone would like to tell me, I am of course available. If it should be something that I need to know, but that I need not make public to-morrow morning, it will certainly be to your advantage to tell me to-night.”
We dispersed in stunned silence. I don’t think anyone addressed a word to anyone else. When I got back to my room, I sat down in my chair for twenty minutes and did not move. I was too tired and too exhausted mentally and emotionally even to go to bed. Finally, I roused myself and looked around for a cigarette. After a few minutes’ search, I realized with annoyance that I had left them downstairs. There was nothing to do but to go down and get them. There was a policeman on guard in the hall. He watched me stolidly, but made no move to stop me.
I found my cigarettes without any trouble and came up again. As I came back to go into my room, I glanced down the corridor. The policeman was looking, too. Charles was just turning the handle to Burgess’ door. I hesitated for a moment on the threshold of my own room. Then I went in and went to bed. I fell asleep almost instantly.