I came down to the library about half an hour after Charles had awakened me. Most of the others were already there, or came in soon after. They looked subdued and depressed. Donald Gresham sat apart from the others. He looked as if he had slept very little, and his eyes glittered with something that looked like hatred as he watched the others in the room.
When Charles came in, everyone turned to him with relief—and expectation. He had been with the doctor, and we assumed he would tell us the cause of Uncle Hugh’s death. We had a general impression that it was heart failure; though when my aunt said this to me in the semi-audible voice she considered suitable for such an occasion, I remembered that the doctor had told me only a few weeks earlier that my uncle’s heart was entirely sound. I remembered how often doctors were wrong. But I was conscious of a nagging uneasiness, and I as well as the others hoped that Charles would say the few words necessary to dispel any doubt.
But Charles didn’t. To all questions, he replied evasively that the doctor was still in Uncle Hugh’s bedroom, and that he had sent for another doctor to get a second opinion concerning the probable cause of death. I glanced at Gresham. His eyes had not lost their feverish glow, and he stared at Charles with avidity.
My Uncle William was displeased, and said so. He resented the fact that Charles had taken charge. My uncle suggested that as head of the family, he himself ought to have been consulted. He added that he had always thought Harmer, the local doctor, a fool, and that the doctor’s present behaviour was a case in point. “It ought to be simple to diagnose heart failure. There’s nothing difficult about that. And as a matter of fact, anyone knowing Hugh would have expected it. He never accepted the fact that he was getting on. Not that sixty is old—but it’s old enough for a man to start taking care of himself.”
That Uncle William was delighted to have outlived his successful younger brother, thereby surpassing him in longevity if in nothing else, was evident. But Charles did not reply, and an uneasy silence again settled upon the room. I was conscious of grief, and even more conscious of surprise and emptiness. I had never thought of Uncle Hugh as dying like an ordinary man. I had not been passionately fond of him. But I had always liked him, he had been good to me, and he had been one of the pillars on which my life had always rested. I felt very much alone.
From time to time, someone made a remark in a low voice. But conversation never became general. We waited for what seemed a long time, while the tension imperceptibly increased. Finally, Dr. Harmer came into the room. To everyone’s surprise, the other doctor he had chosen to consult was Dr. Adams, the local coroner. I glanced at Charles, and he nodded very slightly.
Adams was a man used to taking charge. He did now. He said the usual conventional words of sympathy, and then added, “I’ve something rather awkward to tell you all. Dr. Harmer called me because he wasn’t satisfied concerning the cause of Sir Hugh’s death. The symptoms didn’t suggest heart failure to him. They don’t to me, either. In fact, without a very thorough examination, I’m afraid it will be impossible to determine the exact cause of death. From a superficial examination, there doesn’t seem to be any reason why Sir Hugh should have died.”
We all stared at him, trying to understand what his words meant. Aunt Mildred said, “I don’t see—what could he have died of?”
“There are various possibilities. As I’ve said, we’ll have to make a more thorough examination.”
Tay said, in his precise voice, “You mean you want to do a complete autopsy?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s absurd!” Uncle William had again become the family patriarch. “I shan’t permit anything like that. If you can’t discover what my brother died of, we’ll find a doctor who can.”
It was then that Donald Gresham cut in, and his voice was high and excited. “You won’t permit an autopsy! I’d like to see you prevent it. We’ll see there’s an autopsy! Of course Sir Hugh didn’t die of heart failure. He was murdered—and by one of you. And you won’t get away with it—not if I have to choke his murderer with my bare hands!”
Everyone stared at Gresham as if he had gone mad, and Dr. Harmer said, coldly, “Who is this young man?”
I said, “An acquaintance of my uncle’s, Mr. Donald Gresham. He’s been staying with us since yesterday.”
Gresham turned to Dr. Adams. “I’m not surprised you can’t find out how he died. But I’ll bet you he was poisoned—and by one of them. And they’re not going to get away with it. If you won’t look into the matter properly, I’ll take it up with the police.”
By this time, everyone had begun to talk at once. Adams cut through the general clamour. “I am the coroner,” he said, “so technically I’m in charge here. Can you tell me on what evidence you’re basing those statements?”
“I knew Sir Hugh. He wasn’t ill—he could have lived for years. His London doctor had just told him so. I tell you he was murdered by one of these people. Sir Hugh was very rich, and none of his relatives had any money of their own at all. The amount of money they’ll cut up among them now he’s dead—well, it’s worth murdering for, if you’re inclined that way—or if you need the money.”
Uncle William, Andrew, and Robert started for him at the same time. Dr. Harmer stepped in front of Gresham and waved them back. “You’ll gain nothing by that. Perhaps you’d like to amplify that statement, Gresham—always remembering that there are witnesses and that what you are saying may be slander.”
Gresham said, “Yes, I’ll amplify it. I’m a member of the Freemen of Britain. Sir Hugh was very active in it, though he hadn’t let it be publicly known. But he had decided to support us openly—almost immediately. He was going to give a large donation to the organization. I came down here to talk about it. Sir Hugh didn’t tell anyone why I was here or who I was. But anyone could have listened at the library door. We weren’t talking in whispers. Perhaps some of them knew his plans anyway—or guessed. Any one of them might have gone to any lengths to stop his association with the Freemen, and to stop him giving us any money. You can try threatening me, but it won’t work. I’ll demand a police investigation of Sir Hugh’s death—and with my organization behind me, I’ll get it.”
There was a heavy, bitter silence. Adams broke it. “I need hardly say that I do not take this young man’s extravagant statements seriously. But it is true that there are certain things about Sir Hugh’s death which are—difficult to understand. In order to stop this kind of slanderous gossip, I would suggest that I communicate with the Chief Constable. Naturally, I can’t speak for him. But I think that, in view of Sir Hugh’s position, the Chief Constable will probably put the matter into the hands of Scotland Yard immediately. I have no doubt that a proper investigation will soon dispose of the problem—and of this young man’s remarks.”
My Uncle William considered this a monstrous suggestion. “I cannot understand what prompted you to make it, Dr. Adams. We shall certainly not do anything of the sort. We’ll call in my brother’s regular physician, and he will undoubtedly be able to settle the matter in short order.”
Charles looked at my uncle, and at Gresham, and then briefly at everyone else. “I’m afraid that won’t do,” he said, quietly. “These two doctors are not satisfied about my father’s death. Mr. Gresham has made some challenging statements. No one here has anything to hide. I believe we must accept Dr. Adams’ offer to get in touch with the Chief Constable. Like him, I believe that Scotland Yard will be called in, and that they will be able to clear up the matter very quickly.” He turned to Gresham. “I shall expect you to withdraw your remarks—if they turn out to be unjustified—after the facts are known; and I warn you that you’ll be in serious trouble if you make any unsubstantiated statements in the future.”
My Uncle William started to object. But Charles’ air of authority was so genuine that no one, not even Gresham, challenged it. Adams went to telephone the Chief Constable and to arrange for immediate (local) police guards to be placed both inside and outside the house. The rest of us dispersed slowly, in unhappy silence.
I went to the kitchen to try to make some domestic arrangements with Mrs. Rapp. She was evidently very much upset, and had been crying. We spoke together for a few minutes, but she had made very sensible plans about meals and there was little to discuss. As I came out of the kitchen, I met Charles and we strolled out into the garden together.
I remembered Paul saying to me, the night we had met Giles, “Your cousin Charles always seems to be playing a part.” I wondered what part he was playing now. I could get no clue to what he was thinking from his face. But I was sure that he had not accepted Dr. Adams’ offer with such alacrity just to silence Gresham’s hysterical outburst. I said, “Charles, you know more than you said in the library. Why weren’t they satisfied with Uncle Hugh’s death? Did they think he had been murdered?”
Charles glanced at me. “The idea doesn’t seem to shock you as much as it did everyone else. It’s a point I’ve meant to take up with you. But you’re quite right. I do know more than I said in the library, though perhaps it was unwise of the doctors to tell me. You see, Christy, they think my father died some time after two o’clock—say about two-thirty or so. He seems to have got out of bed for some reason—probably he went into the bathroom—and then to have collapsed on the floor and died. But there are no symptoms of heart failure and none of a stroke—no head injuries—nothing of any kind. So, quite correctly, Harmer thought it warranted looking into. He thought perhaps he’d overlooked something. But Adams found the same thing—or rather, found nothing. I think they’d have felt an investigation was needed, even if Gresham had said nothing at all.”
“But you can’t die from no cause. And as for Gresham’s idea of poison, surely they could have scotched that right off? There’s no poison that can kill without a trace.”
“No,” said Charles. “But there are poisons you’d need an autopsy to discover.”
“Do you mean you think he was poisoned?”
“I honestly have no theories. But, as you say, you can’t die of no cause. Scotland Yard has excellent pathologists. We’d better reserve judgment until we hear from them—assuming, as I do, that the Yard is called in. I now come to the other point I’ve wanted to take up with you. I’ve been talking to Raikes. He says he doesn’t think that motor-car crash was an accident. He thinks the tyre had been tampered with, and he told me how he thought it had been done. He also said he talked to you about it. He very tactfully said he didn’t know what you had made of it. But he thinks it could have been an attempt at murder.”
“Raikes’ professional pride was hurt because he had a blowout,” I said. “He thinks it in some way reflects on him.”
“I agree that’s very likely,” said Charles. “Still, did it occur to you to mention the matter to someone?”
“Yes. It did. I told Uncle Hugh. He said, ‘My dear Christy, it’s not like you to be melodramatic.’”
“Naturally,” said Charles. “He would. You didn’t think of telling anyone else?”
“I thought of it. The trouble was I couldn’t decide whom to tell. You see, the car was all right on Saturday and it didn’t go out of the garage on Sunday. All of you—and Tay—were at the house on Sunday. Anyone could have walked out of the house and into the garage—and back again—without causing comment or even being noticed. Whom would you suggest I should have consulted?”
“Yes. I see it was a problem. Did you really think any one of us capable of murdering my father?”
“Any one of you,” I said, “or none.”
“And that pleasant but not really necessary telephone call to Paris last Sunday? Was that in any way connected with worry about my father?”
I had no wish to go into the matter of Uncle Hugh’s digestive upset and my near-panic on hearing of it. “No,” I said.
“I agree that it was delayed reaction,” said Charles. “If it was because you were worried, you should have called some days earlier unless—did anything else happen, Chris? Was anything else bothering you?”
“No,” I said again.
Charles did not look entirely convinced. But he dropped the matter. “Do you think my father was murdered, Chris?”
I did not reply immediately. “Do you?” he repeated.
“I think it very likely. Do you?”
“I also think it very likely. And the burst tyre—do you think that was an unsuccessful attempt at murder?”
“I don’t know,” I said. The conversation was making me acutely uneasy. “And even if it was, there’s little anyone can do about that now.”
“You mean it’s too late for the police to find any evidence? You’d be surprised. They’ll go over that episode and everything connected with it with a fine-tooth comb. One thing though: you’ll be less of a suspect than the rest of us. It’s hardly likely you’d have damaged the tyre if you were going to be in the car. Have you any nomination for First Murderer, Chris?”
The question came out abruptly. “Not offhand,” I said.
“And motives?”
“Gresham gave you a good motive this morning: money.”
“Did anyone need money that badly?”
“I don’t know.”
“Besides,” said Charles, “you’re forgetting one thing. We’ve assumed that my father’s left us each something. But no one really knows, and we shan’t know until the will’s read. Would anyone—of us—be desperate enough to murder on an assumption?”
“If he needed money badly enough—and were unbalanced.”
“Yes,” said Charles. “Christy, what about this Freemen of Britain? Do you know how deep my father was into it?”
“No. I tried to talk to him about it a few days ago, but he wouldn’t.”
“How did you learn about it?”
“Oh, rumours were getting around. I put a few things together. It all added up. He didn’t deny it when I suggested it and I’m sure he would have if he’d had no connection at all with them. How did you hear of it?”
He could easily have said he had heard from Gresham that morning for the first time. He didn’t. He said, “Rumours cross the Channel, too. I’d heard quite a bit—enough to convince me he was in very deep, or would be soon.”
“Is that why you came back last night instead of this morning, as you’d planned?”
“How did you know I came back last night?”
“You woke me before nine. I don’t know a plane that gets you to London early enough in the morning for you to get to Feathers before nine.”
“You’re quite right. I finished earlier than I expected, so I came back last night—got here just before midnight. I didn’t want to wake anybody, but when I went up to my room, I saw a light under my father’s door. So I went in.”
“To wish him a happy birthday or to talk to him about the Freemen?”
“Both. He didn’t talk much about the Freemen, but I certainly got the idea he was going to back them very heavily, and that he’d been working with them closely already.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Contrary to what Giles would expect, I tried to dissuade him. He said we’d talk of it again. But I had the idea he’d made up his mind.”
“Then Gresham was probably telling the truth this morning about what Uncle Hugh planned to do?”
“I think so.”
“Would anyone murder him because of that?”
Charles’ eyes met mine. They were entirely without expression. “Well, it’s either that or money, isn’t it? I can’t think of another reason.”