A Man of Forty (25 page)

This, you understand, is looking some way ahead. These things won't happen till some weeks after the Brome-Swinford business is finished and packed up. But she haunts me, Mrs. Parzloe does, standing there in the dock, listening to that judicial exordium, and even now, silly woman, hardly believing what she hears. Yes, she has to stand up to hear her sentence; and for two seconds she remains standing, very stiff and still, with a puzzled look in her eyes, before being taken down below. No good arguing with the old turkey-cock : she knows that. She can't help wishing Bertha could have come—to see her off like. Or Lily, for that matter. But you couldn't hardly have expected it. Twelve months. It's a longish time.

“Come along, dear,” whispers the wardress, touching her elbow.

Neither threats nor promises, both equally empty, could persuade Lydia to make any further statement. She had good reason to suppose that she had been the first person to see Adam Swinford dead, and she was afraid that anything she admitted might somehow help to incriminate David. There was nothing for it, then, but to arrest her on a charge of complicity in a murder by a person at present unknown. But even this did not get the true story from her : how, arriving at Adam's flat after watching her husband off the premises, she had got no response to her knocking and ringing, and had finally entered with the latchkey which Adam himself had given David, and forgotten about, a year ago. The sight of Adam lying apparently dead on the floor came so pat to its cue, seemed so plainly the fulfilment of a fear she had only half entertained, as to send her hurrying from the place with but one idea in her mind, that David must not be caught.

How could she, who had known David so long, believe him capable of murder? She couldn't and she didn't. Of David as she knew him, the supposition was monstrous ; but the man she thought he had become, the demon that must have possessed him since Adam's treachery, and Mary's complaisance, of what was he
not
capable? She, who by now knew something of demons, had only to look into her own heart for the answer. But, going distractedly through the streets, she tried to persuade herself that perhaps even now it was not too late, that perhaps Adam was still alive, merely unconscious—drunk, drugged, or stunned. And once that hope had effected an entrance to her mind, she could not resist it, but must put it at once to the proof, without waiting to consider the rashness of her plan.…

Lydia's arrest, carefully advertised in the press, brought David back to London, and to a series of strenuous interviews with the police.

Where had he been? He had been staying at a farmhouse on Exmoor. Why had he gone there instead of going home? To think things out.

To think out the consequences of Adam Swinford's death? No : he had been unaware of Adam Swinford's death.

What had been the nature of his interview with Swinford? A conversational nature.

Had the conversation been satisfactory? No : it had been maddening.

Had it ended with hard words? No.

Could Mr. Brome briefly describe Swinford's demeanour during the conversation? Yes : insolently sympathetic.

When Mr. Brome had attacked Swinford, had Swinford offered resistance or had he been taken unawares? He had not attacked Swinford.

Did he seriously expect them to believe that? He did not expect them to believe anything reasonable, because he supposed them (he said) to have been born stupid : otherwise they would not have accused his wife.

Had his wife known that he had gone to stay at a farmhouse on Exmoor? He could not answer for what his wife knew.

“Now, Mr. Brome, be good enough to cast your mind back…”

And so on and so on. Let's leave them to it.

Edith Camshaw, like Lily, lived on the top floor of a tall building ; and, again like Lily, she lived alone. There the resemblance ended, however : Miss Camshaw's three rooms, separate entrance, and immunity from near and noisy neighbours, had made Lily's quarters-one room and a fifth share in a lavatory—seem meagre indeed. Edith, who had never seen Lily's habitat, had a perhaps exaggerated idea of its meanness and squalor, and for that reason or another had longed to have the girl live here, with her. It had been a dearly cherished project which she had never, as things turned out, brought herself to the point of mentioning; and she recalled it now, this summer evening, recalled it with a curious bitterness as she stood by her bedroom window looking down into the street below. I could have made her happy here, she thought. But not now : that's all over. Adam Swinford's death had profoundly affected her ; had changed the direction of her life ; had created a problem of which she had been seeking the solution ever since. That solution was now, she believed, within her reach. She had been unable to resist following, so far as she could, the police investigation ; and, after interviewing Stevenage at Orkney House, had even gone to the length of getting in direct touch with officialdom, in the person of Spencer. It was seven o'clock on the evening after David Brome's return to town, and David himself was among the three guests whose arrival she was how looking forward to, the other two being Stevenage and Spencer himself. From where she stood she could have seen, had she turned to glance through the half-open door, the glasses and the decanter of sherry set out on a table in the other room; but she remained looking fixedly down, staring at a distant street, until roused by the front-door bell. At the sound of that she turned quickly, and, before answering the door, tried a smile on, glancing at herself in the dressing-table mirror.

She carried her smile to the door. “ Good evening! How kind of you to come!”

They all trooped in, and stood about, hats in hand. There was a fourth man, David's solicitor. Not one of the four had a very clear idea of what to expect from this odd woman ; and three of them were wondering by what magic she had persuaded Spencer to come dancing attendance on her like this. David Brome was momentarily puzzled by another question : had he, or had he not, seen her before? He paid small attention to it, however; for the present scene, though
much might depend on it, was not yet quite real to him, so deeply absorbed was he still by the thought of Lydia and what Lydia had done. He saw, he had seen from the first, how like Lydia it was, both in its gallantry and in its slightly embarrassing excess of… of what? (He would not or could not name the quality.) It was like her to be willing to die for him, and it was like her (but he would not think so far as this) to act on a sudden heroic impulse and have her plan miscarry. It was like her to be willing to die yet unwilling to let him go freely to another woman. And not like
her
only : it was uncomfortably like himself and everybody else. That's how were made, God help us ; and until we can in some sense die and be born again ... He was now sharply aware, more sharply than ever before, of being bound to Lydia in an indissoluble bond : not (he thought) by duty, and not by desire, but by something more inward than the one and more enduring than the other. Perhaps it was nothing more or less than habit fortified by conscience ; but whatever it was it made it intolerable to him that Lydia should have been persecuted (for what else can you call it? he demanded angrily) by these blundering policemen : persecuted, threatened, put in fear of her life. His heart ached with the thought of her terror and loneliness, that loneliness of spirit to which he more than any other had condemned her ; and the intolerable radiance of Mary became dim in his mind. Lydia, inconvenient but undeniable fact, was his wife : she was almost himself. Mary was nothing—an irrelevance.

Sipping Miss Camshaw's sherry, he tried to attend to what Miss Camshaw was saying.

“I asked you to come here this evening, Mr. Spencer, because I thought you might like to know how Adam Swinford met his death.”

“We know that much, madam. He was struck on the head with a weapon which had something in the nature of a spike protruding from it. That spike entered the brain by almost the only available route. A very neat job, if you like to put it that way.” Spencer smiled grimly, looking round on the company. “ I haven't asked you, Miss Camshaw,” he went on, “ where you got your information from. But perhaps…”

“We shall come to that presently,” said Miss Camshaw. “ Have some more sherry.”

“Thank you. But you're not drinking?”

“Forgive me. I prefer not to. I'm sufficiently… stimulated already.”

“When you asked me to come here,” Spencer reminded her, “ you gave me to understand…”

“ I'm afraid,” she interrupted, “ I was rather lavish in my promises. It was so very important that you should come? I even hinted, didn't I, that I would produce the murderer himself for you?”

Spencer was losing patience. “ And you can't do any such thing, eh?”

“On reflection I decided not to,” said Miss Camshaw coolly. “ I felt it would be in somewhat doubtful taste.”

“Really, Miss Camshaw ...”

Charles Ashcott, David's solicitor, said quickly and suavely : “ I feel sure Miss Camshaw hasn't brought us here on a fool's errand.”

“If she has,” said Spencer, “ I shall have a few questions to ask her concerning her own movements on the evening in question.”

Miss Camshaw smiled patiently. “ Before you do that, Mr. Spencer, may I ask
you
a question? Have you got into touch yet with the man who called at Orkney House to see to a defective telephone on the evening in question?” Her tone put the phrase into ironical quotation-marks.

“I can't say we have,” Spencer admitted, with a shrug. “ The telephone authorities say that no one was sent. And the job, as a matter of fact, still remains to be done. If you have any information…”

“Yes,” said Miss Camshaw. She was flushed; her eyes shone brilliantly ; it had taken more than sherry, Spencer thought, to produce that degree of exhilaration. “ I'm so sorry : you're not smoking.” She handed round cigarettes. “ Or a pipe if you prefer it. Yes, do please. Let me fill up your glasses, and I'll tell you the whole story as I see it.”

They sat in a half circle, facing her. Apart from the preliminary greetings and introductions neither Stevenage nor David had yet said a word; but David was made aware now, by her curiously intent regard of him, that she was addressing herself as much to him as to Spencer.

“There's no need to spin it out. I'll make it as short as possible. The man who pretended to have come to see to the telephone was the man who killed Adam Swinford. From the fact that he was disguised you may infer, if you like, that the murder was planned down to the last detail, though I'm not sure that I shall agree with you. It may be that he went prepared for anything, while relying, in the last resort, on the impulse or inspiration of the moment. It is quite certain that he entertained a powerful hatred—yes, something more than hatred—for Swinford, for reasons which you gentlemen may have some difficulty in understanding. I don't think I need go into that, beyond
saying that there was a girl in the case, a girl whom Swinford had seduced and betrayed.”

The smooth narrative came to a pause. David, watching het closely, was startled by the sudden collapse of Miss Camshaw's artificial jauntiness. He saw anguish and disgust in her eyes, in her twisted mouth. But with an effort, as if shaking off an evil dream, she controlled herself and went on speaking.

“The defective telephone, as you know, was in the call-box on the first floor, Adam Swinford's floor. The matter had been reported the day before, but to Stevenage, not to the Post Office. I know that because it was I myself who reported it. I knew Adam Swinford personally ; I went to see him, the day before his death as it turned out, to confirm a certain opinion I had formed of him ; and on my way out I remarked to Stevenage that the upstairs telephone was out of order and that Mr. Swinford had advised the Post Office of the fact. Stevenage was therefore prepared for the visit of a telephone man the next day. That's so, isn't it?” she said, turning to Stevenage.

“Quite right, ma'am.”

“I don't know, Mr. Spencer, how much Mr. Brome has been persuaded to confide in you ...”

“Nor is that of any consequence, at this stage,” said Charles Ashcott.

“Very true,” said Miss Camshaw. “ And since, as I happen to know, he is entirely innocent, Mr. Ashcott, I'm sure you will have advised him to speak the precise truth. I was wondering whether he mentioned seeing this supposed telephone man.”

“Yes,” said David. “ I've mentioned it more than once, but I don't think they quite believe me. But how do you…”

“The telephone man,” said Miss Camshaw, in level tones, “ arrived at No. 47 Orkney House just as Mr. Brome was leaving it. He was a quick thinker that evening, and this was a bit of luck he had not anticipated. To prevent Mr. Brome shutting the door behind him he said ‘ Just a moment, sir! I've come to see to Mr. Swinford's telephone.' As Mr. Swinford had no telephone in his flat, he was taking a chance. But Mr. Brome did not challenge his statement. Mr. Brome said
^c
Oh,' stared vaguely, and went off without another word. He seemed to be preoccupied and… well, agitated.”

David leant forward in his chair. “ Miss Camshaw…” he said hoarsely.

“Yes, yes,” said Miss Camshaw. “ But wait a minute, please. Let me tell the story in my own way. The telephone man, having
effected an entry, proceeded with his business, which was, first of all, to remind Adam Swinford of his vileness, and then…”

“And then,” suggested Ashcott, “ to teach him not to do it again, eh?”

“Exactly.” Miss Camshaw's face twitched, and she seemed to have some difficulty with her breathing. “ He did the job—it was ludicrously easy—and then walked quietly away.”

“And did nobody see him?” asked Charles Ashcott. “ Nobody except… you?”

“At the head of the stairs he heard someone coming up, and—rather foolishly, I think, but we must make allowances for him—he turned back and slipped into the telephone call-box, which he had just passed on his way from No. 47. The person coming upstairs was a woman. She was something over forty, I suppose. She had black hair cut in a simple bob, and a rather sallow complexion. The telephone man—forgive me for clinging to my little joke,” she said in parenthesis—“the telephone man had a bad shock then. For the woman went straight to No. 47 and, after knocking and ringing without getting any result, let herself in with a key. She went in and closed the door, but was out again before our friend the murderer had had time to collect his wits. She went past his hiding-place without so much as a glance. She was in a desperate hurry, and no wonder.”