Blue Murder (26 page)

They walked back in silence to the house, where Leda insisted on his sitting down just as he was, while she took off her coat, and went to wash her hands.

"Are you sure you're all right?” she asked when she came back.

"Quite,” smiled Arnold. "It was silly of me to feel like that, but it was the fumes rising up in the heat that knocked me over. If you want to bump me off at any time you'll have to think of a better way than that though. Here, what's wrong?”

For Leda suddenly looked as pale as a ghost.

"I—I'm all in,” she said.

Arnold pushed her gently into the nearest chair. "Stay there!” he ordered, and went out of the room, returning a few minutes later with a half-bottle of brandy, a syphon of soda, and two glasses.

He poured out two stiff drinks and placed one in her hand.

"There you are,” he said, "drink that, and be grateful that your father kept a well-stocked cellar! I'm a selfish brute. I ought to have known that you'd have some reaction after this unfortunate affair, and instead of that, I go around trying to get sympathy for myself. It seems to me that we both need a keeper.”

"You know,” he went on after he had finished his drink, "you really are a marvel, Leda. I don't know any other woman who would have had the courage to do what you have done tonight.”

The brandy which Leda had drunk with the grimacing gulps that are usually reserved for a particularly evil-flavoured medicine, had speedily brought back the colour to her cheeks.

“I don't deserve all those compliments,” she protested. ‘If I make up my mind to do something unpleasant, I can usually make myself go through with it, that's all.”

Arnold took the empty glasses, and began to fill them again.

“No more for me, Arnold. No really. I shall be drunk!”

“Do you good,” he replied with some ambiguity. “Go on. I haven't made it quite so strong this time. You need a pick-me-up tonight. Uncle Arnold says so.”

He placed a cigarette in her mouth and held a match for her, and they sat for a little while in silence, warming themselves at the fire.

At length Leda got up.

“It must be awfully late,” she said. “I must go and change for dinner.”

She moved forward unsteadily, and would have fallen if Arnold had not put his arm round her.

She startled him by flinging her arms around his neck, and bursting into tears.

‘Oh, Arnold! Whatever should I do without you?” she cried.

A few weeks later, Arnold walked into the breakfast room at tea-time to find Leda, surrounded as usual by her dogs, already pouring out tea.

“Hallo,” she said. “Better late than never! My goodness! You do look pleased with yourself.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “This is my lucky day.”

“It must be,” laughed Leda. “You look just like a schoolboy.”

“Oh, not quite as young as that,” returned Arnold. “Let's say a twenty-year old. I've a piece of good news for you.”

“Well, thank goodness for that!” she exclaimed. I've just been looking at the morning papers, and what with some people telling us there's nothing to worry about, and others warning us not to be complacent, I really don't know how I'm supposed to be feeling. So I finished up by being depressed.”

“Oh, don't say that,” said Arnold, removing two dogs from the settee and sitting down beside her. “That Inspector fellow hasn't been worrying you, has he?”

“No,” replied Leda. “I'm really beginning to think that he's written the case off just as another of those unsolved mysteries. I've had no questions to answer for weeks, and, so far as I know, Stanton hasn't been arrested yet.”

“Good. Well now, Leda, I want to talk to you about this engagement of ours.”

Leda slapped him playfully on the shoulder.

“Oh, Mr. Smith, this is so sudden!” she exclaimed. Arnold chuckled.

“I suppose it is,” he admitted. “We've taken it for granted for so long now, that we never seem to mention it to each other. I think it's about time that we did. Seriously, Leda, it must have occurred to you that things have changed a lot lately. We arranged the whole thing in the first place to preserve the conventions and spare your sister-in-law's blushes. Although she is no longer staying here, we've just let things drift, but we ought to think about it a bit. You see, we've been living in the same house without a chaperone for several weeks now, and it must look odd to some people. I knew you're very unconventional Leda, but I think far too highly of you to put you in a position which gives anyone the slightest chance of talking scandal about you.”

“My dear, I don't care twopence about that,” laughed Leda. “Let them talk if they want to!”

“That's all very well,” returned Arnold, “but I'm not going to have it, Leda. Oh dear! I'm making an awful hash of this, I'm afraid. Can't you see what I'm trying to say? We can't go on like this, Leda.”

Leda turned towards him with an expression on her face which almost transfigured her plain features.

“Oh, Arnold!” she exclaimed. “If you only knew how I've longed for you to say that. I've nearly said it myself dozens of times, but I've always told myself that it wouldn't be fair for me to do so.”

Arnold looked even happier than before.

“Do you really mean that?” he asked. “Why on earth didn't you, then? Whatever made you think I should mind? And here I've been feeling quite worried over the possibility that you might take it the wrong way. I really knew you wouldn't, of course: you're so jolly sensible about everything; but I should hate to offend you in any way, and I didn't feel quite sure about it. Well, to think that all these weeks you've been as anxious to get out of our engagement as I have. What a joke! Don't tell me that you're in love with someone else, as I am!”

For the first time since he had embarked so nervously on his suggestion, he turned to look closely at Leda. But she was looking down at the Sealyham which lay on its back on her lap, and was apparently intent on investigating its skin with the same absolute preoccupation which a monkey expends on the same pursuit.

“I do believe that Penny has got fleas,” she remarked. Arnold brought his hand down upon his knee with a resounding slap, and rocked with merriment.

“Well, I like that!” he exclaimed. “There you are jilting me, and all you can do is to think about fleas. I know what it is, though. You're trying to get out of answering my last remark. Come on, own up.”

He leaned forward, and looked at her face. 

“I say, you're not annoyed are you?” he inquired, with some concern.

Leda forced a smile.

“Of course I'm not,” she replied, “though I'm annoyed about the fleas. Oh, you can laugh, but it's a serious thing to get fleas in kennels. If the boarding dogs catch them, their owners will never send them to me again, and I make enough money to pay for dog food, out of the boarders.”

“That's good,” said Arnold heartily. “Not about the fleas, of course. But I must say I'm relieved to know you're not annoyed with me. I was afraid I might be expressing myself awkwardly.”

“I think you put it very well,” replied Leda. “I can't give you back your ring because you never gave me one, but consider it done. And now, what about the good news? It's Charity Fuller, isn't it?”

Arnold gaped at her in amazement.

“How on earth do you know that?” he asked. “It must be a guess, of course, because she only gave me my answer this afternoon. You don't suppose the whole village knows, do you? We've been very discreet.”

Leda shook her head.

“No, I don't think so,” she said reassuringly. “We all knew that you found her attractive, on the night that Betty asked her to dine, but I'm sure I was the only one to think it was more than a passing fancy. I suppose it's because I've been in contact with you for so long now that I know all your moods and feelings. Charity is very pretty. I wish you luck.”

“Thank you, Leda. I know you mean that. And I daresay I shall need some luck. Charity is so much younger than we are—quite a different generation really—and there will be a few adjustments to be made after we are married, I expect. But as long as we love each other—”

“When are you going to be married?” Leda interrupted. “Or am I going too fast? You're not engaged yet.”

“Not officially. I had to talk to you about it first. After all, you might have refused to release me, and as the whole village knows we're engaged I should have to stand by that.”

Leda smiled.

I'm not the kind of woman to try and keep a man against his will,” she said, “and you know we never pretended to ourselves that it was anything more than a convenience. When do you think of getting engaged to Charity?”

“Just as soon as I can get to a jeweller's to buy the ring,” he said.

Leda laughed shortly.

“I said you looked like a schoolboy,” she said. “Now you're talking like one. Don't you realise that in the eyes of my relations and friends, to say nothing of everyone in the village, you're engaged to be married to me? What are they going to think if you go about telling them all tomorrow that you're going to marry Charity Fuller? I should be the laughing-stock of the place, and should have to bring an action against you to save my face.”

Arnold got up and strode across the room.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “What a fool I am! I never thought of that. Wait a minute though!” He walked back to the settee. You'll have to tell them first that you've jilted me.”

“Of course I shall,” replied Leda. “Then you can go and get engaged to her in a fit of pique! But you can't do that decently under a week or two. I know you'll hate to have all this delay, but you see, I've lived here nearly all my life, and I should very much dislike to have everyone commiserating with me over a thing like this.”

“What am I to do then?”

“Leave it to me, Arnold. I promise you that I'll arrange it all as quickly as I can. You'll have to tell Charity, of course, but keep it to yourselves for a bit.”

“Under the circumstances, don't you think it would be better for me to pack up and go to stay at the inn in a few days' time? I can't very well stay here if you're supposed to have quarrelled with me.”

“Yes, you'll have to do that soon. I wish we'd never made that stupid arrangement, then you could have gone on staying here and announced your engagement without all this fuss. I shall hate it, Arnold. It's been grand to have you here. We've had such good times together.”

He took her hand in his.

“I can't even begin to tell you how marvellous it has been for me,” he said. “We're good friends, you and I, Leda. We've always got on so well together. I couldn't think more of you if you were my own sister. You're such a good sort.”

“Dear Arnold,” was Leda's reply. “I do hope you will be happy, but I can't help wondering whether—” She broke off her words, and placed an impulsive hand on his arm. “Arnold,” she said earnestly, “are you quite sure about Charity?”

“Sure about her loving me do you mean? Or about my loving her?”

“Neither. I mean this—now don't be offended will you?—I've always thought it strange that whenever she came to this house, something queer happened. She was here the night before Mother was murdered, and again on the night before Daddy was murdered. When she slept here, there was all that fuss over Frieda. Then when the Inspector did his third-degree on us all, she was the one to break down and confess. I know that he didn't arrest her, but she has an easy influence over men, and perhaps she bewitched him, too. Please don't take this the wrong way, Arnold. I'm only concerned about you. Because, if she did have anything to do with the murders, she'd be quite capable of getting engaged to you, with the intention of doing you some harm. After all, she is a self-confessed murderer, whether she was hysterical at the time or not. Are you sure she's above suspicion?”

“Sure? Of course I am,” said Arnold, laughing at her foolishness. “Why, she's no more capable of murder than you are!”

Arnold sat at the writing table in the window of his sitting-room at High Bungalow,” working on one of the last chapters of his book.

Life had not been easy for him since he had left Leda some three weeks ago, and the one comforting thing, apart from the knowledge that Charity was willing to many him, was that he had suddenly found himself able to write again.

He had taken up his quarters at first at the small village inn, but he had soon discovered that The Fox and Feathers, although outwardly purporting to be one of the old coaching inns, held within its walls none of those comforts which he had anticipated. There were none of the roaring fires, well-cooked meals, good wine, warm beds, excellent service, and goodly welcomes, which the travellers of an earlier century had demanded. He had found it, instead, draughty, damp, and sparsely furnished. The food was badly cooked, and served with none of the refinements of table equipment and napery to which he was accustomed. The water in the bathroom was consistently cold. The landlady, though endeavouring to do her best for him, made no secret of the fact that she had no time to attend to the needs of a permanent guest in addition to her daily work.

Above all, there was no place in which he could write, for his bedroom was unheated, and the room in which he took his meals became a private bar during licensed hours. This was serious, because unless he could earn enough to supplement adequately his present meagre income, he would be unable to support a wife, and at many times during those unhappy weeks, he cursed himself for a fool, and wished he had never fallen captive to Charity's charms.

This, however, was only when he was alone. When he was in her presence, he could not blind himself to the fact that she possessed for him that indefinable and deadly attraction which makes men—and especially men of fifty—do strange and sometimes evil things.