‘Such occasions are invariably wearing and troublesome. This must be terribly unsettling for you personally, Master. Being put on the spot can’t be much fun.’
‘Fun is the very last word I would use to describe my sentiments at the moment.’
‘You’d be perfectly justified if you refused to answer my questions and showed me the door this very instant. You are under no obligation to talk to me. Private detectives after all are not the police.’
‘I’d rather deal with you than with the police,’ the Master said after a pause.
‘Would it put your mind at rest if I told you that I have managed to establish a strong presumption as to the culprit’s identity?’
‘That would very much depend on who you believe the culprit is.’ The Master picked up a silver paper knife, tried its point with his forefinger and put it down again.
‘It is not you—nor is it anyone else directly associated with Mayholme Manor.’
‘This sounds reassuring,’ the Master said cautiously.
‘I have reason to believe that it was Sir Seymour’s sister Bettina, who stole her brother’s ring on the afternoon of June the 22nd,’ said Payne. ‘That was the day I paid my first visit to Mayholme Manor.’
He hoped it wouldn’t occur to the Master to ask him why he had come at a time when no crime was yet known to have been committed. ‘Miss Tradescant managed to sneak up to her brother’s room without anyone noticing her,’ he went on quickly. ‘Sir Seymour, as we established, was in the salle de ciné at the time. The reason for her visit is not yet clear. She saw his ring inside the porcelain dish on his bedside table and took it. It is known, I believe, as the Wallis ring. Bettina left her ring in its place. Her ring was an exact replica of the original, only it was smaller. And, one can assume, much cheaper. She was hoping that her brother wouldn’t notice the difference.’
‘Sir Seymour should never have left such a valuable ring lying about.’
‘I agree. There should have been a barbed wire entanglement round it.’
‘So that’s why the ring didn’t fit his finger! He was worried silly. He was convinced there was something wrong with him. He believed his fingers were swollen.’
‘What I want to ascertain now, Master, is whether Miss Tradescant was here on the morning her brother died as well. That was when the second theft took place. That was when the replica disappeared.’
‘She was here,’ the Master said promptly. He clearly felt no misgivings about implicating Bettina. ‘She’d been here since dawn, she said, sitting in her car outside, waiting for a “confirmation”. She was convinced her brother was dead.’
‘So she could have slipped in, gone to her brother’s room and pinched the replica.’
‘What would she want the replica for?’
‘The replica constituted evidence that pointed to her,’ Payne explained. ‘It must have dawned on her that if her brother’s ring was too loose for her finger, the replica would prove too tight for his finger and that he might work out what had happened soon enough. So she decided that the replica had to disappear.’
‘Miss Tradescant made a complete nuisance of herself that morning. She was dressed in black from head to toe.’ The Master winced at the memory. ‘She managed to get herself locked inside one of the downstairs lavatories. For half an hour, or so she claimed.’
‘Really? How did that happen?’
‘Oh, something had gone wrong with the lavatory door lock, or the door knob remained in her hand, some such rigmarole. She banged on the door and screamed to be let out, she said, but no one came. Well, all the stewards are upstairs at that hour, that’s our busiest time, you see, so I am not surprised that no one heard her. When she was eventually released, she came to see me. It was the same cranky old story as before. She was convinced her brother was dead, the chill had made that perfectly clear, and so on and so forth. As it happens, this time she’d got it right. Sir Seymour was dead.’
‘It’s odd that she’d got it right … That could have been a coincidence of course …’
‘She stole one of my stewards’ habits,’ the Master said.
‘She stole one of the stewards’ habits?’ Payne’s eyebrows went up. ‘Those orange things?’
‘Yes. It was in her bag. She said she thought it might provide her with inspiration for a dress—some such nonsense. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she turned out to be a kleptomaniac as well.’
‘Who found Sir Seymour’s body?’ Major Payne asked after a pause.
‘Travis, one of the stewards. He’d gone up with Sir Seymour’s breakfast.’
‘And who was the last person to see Sir Seymour alive? Travis again?’
‘No. That must be the other chap. Um. Madden.’ Once more the Master picked up the paper knife. ‘He is newish. I took him on at Dr Fairchild’s recommendation. We don’t really need any more stewards, but sometimes one does do things to oblige the brothers. Old men are noted for their whims and caprices. Dr Fairchild has been most generous to Mayholme Manor. Madden had worked for Dr Fairchild, it seems—his personal valet, something like that.’
‘Dr Fairchild’s valet? And now he is a steward here? How terribly interesting. Dr Fairchild is the gentleman in the wheelchair, correct? Pebble glasses—looks bleached? He insisted on being moved from the ground floor to the third floor, giving some silly reason for it? He had a portrait of the Duchess of Windsor on his wall, I noticed. The Duchess is depicted wearing a dress strikingly embroidered with wreaths of black pineapples.’
‘Your powers of observation, Major Stratton, are quite remarkable.’
‘Payne. I couldn’t help noticing that Dr Fairchild’s new room was only two doors away from Sir Seymour’s … Did they know each other well?’
‘Not at all well. They’d never spoken to each other, to my knowledge.’ The Master frowned. ‘Some time ago Sir Seymour imagined Dr Fairchild was staring at him. He said he didn’t like it.’
‘So Dr Fairchild’s former valet was the last person to see Sir Seymour alive …’
‘I am sure it is not as sinister as you make it sound, but, yes, it was Madden who brought Sir Seymour his early morning tea and drew his curtains.’
‘I would very much like to have a word with Madden.’ Major Payne rose to his feet. ‘And with Dr Fairchild, if possible.’
‘Well, Madden is most likely to be in Dr Fairchild’s room.’
As he strolled out of the study, Major Payne paused once more by the little table with the newspapers. The paper on the top was still crumpled, the ink a little smudged where he had put his hand.
Memorial Service—friends and relatives of Petunia Luscombe-Lunt—
The next moment he remembered. Got to be the same woman. Couldn’t be two women with a name like that. The Law of Probability was against it. It was her. Jesty’s Pill. Jesty’s oldest squeeze.
Petunia Luscombe-Lunt appeared to have perished in an accident while hiking in the Alps. Poor old Jesty. Unlucky, oh so unlucky, in love! RIP Pill, Payne murmured. He made to go, but suddenly he stopped again, turned round and picked up the paper once more.
Something had caught his attention …
But—but that didn’t make sense. An utter impossibility, in fact. The date was wrong. There must be some mistake, surely?