Crooked Wreath (11 page)

“I can tell without being a Red Indian and used to tracking, thank you, Miss,” said Cockrill.

It was very inconsiderate of Claire to have such little feet, that was all, because it meant that she and only she had been up that path, and not till this morning when her prints had been made. And the other paths were innocent of footmarks, and in any event, the doors to the lodge were closed. And nobody could possibly have pushed a way through the roses–that was more than obvious. Just by brushing her hand against them, Peta herself had brought down a shower of petals, the day before. So what it all boiled down to was this: that at a quarter to seven Grandfather had been seen alive by Stephen's clerk; that after the sanding of the paths at a quarter to nine, nobody could have gone near him; that if indeed he had been murdered, he had been murdered within those two hours. At about ten past seven, she, Peta, and Bella had been with him, and after that Ellen had seen him; and then–then Edward had had that evil twenty minutes alone away from them all … And Cockie was looking at Edward with that beady, bright eye of his, and Stephen was hateful and stern and thought only of what one ought to do to comply with his stupid old law, and nothing of protecting people whom he was supposed to love, or doing anything for a–a person who had
thought
she loved him. And everything was beastly and horrible, and what was most horrible of all was that Grandfather was dead; was lying all crooked up in a sitting position, intolerably grotesque, in some cold, friendless mortuary, there to be forcibly straightened out that he might the more conveniently be slit down the middle to find out whether one of his nearest and dearest had murdered him … Grandfather was dead, who had been so splendid in his benevolent autocracy; and all his family could think about was who had killed him and why and by what means. The world had gone mad around them, there was no longer any room for ordinary grief and tenderness, remorse and regret … Grandfather dead, was forgotten in Sir Richard March, murdered. It was an arid and terrible thing to have no room left for sorrow.

Bella was up at the house wretchedly struggling with all the pitiful aftermath of death: the letters, the telegrams, the phone calls, the notice in
The Times
–how did one announce the death of a man whom the police suspected of having been murdered?–the polite insistence of the authorities in the matter of the post-mortem, the inquest, the possible postponement of tentative funeral arrangements. Tearful and helpless, Bella found, unexpectedly, a rock of strength in Ellen, whose brusque intolerance of sentimental muddle and delay cut like a scythe through her fluttering indecisions.

“Well, just put ‘died at his residence,' Bella. After all, it's true, it's what happened, he
has
died, and this
is
his residence; at least houses are always called residences when people die in them. Date? No, you can't possibly give a date because the police say that the funeral may be held up; well, but what's the
use
, Bella? You'll only have to cancel it later. Dinner? Yes, of course the old hag must get us some dinner; we hardly had any lunch, and people must eat, my dear; it's just one of those things. Well, all right, darling,
you
may not feel like food but … No, they're
not
heartless, it's simply that … Oh, Lord! that telephone again!”

Philip hung about moodily, trying to help but mostly getting in the way. Claire, returning from the lodge with the others, suggested to him as though carelessly: “Why not come out into the garden for a bit, and give it a rest? We'll walk down by the river.”

Philip looked doubtful. “What about you, Nell? Would you like to come out and get some sunshine and air?”

Ellen, however, was busily addressing envelopes in her great dashing hand, and hardly looked up. “No,
thank
you! To play gooseberry to my own husband would really be a bit too much.” And she thought with deep bitterness that it was just like Claire to come in, cool and beautiful, from the garden, looking all soulful, and sweep Philip away from the horridness and drudgery which she, Ellen, had rightly kept him to, thus deliberately drawing attention to her own crumpled, hot yellow linen, and the hardness of her heart. In this she did an injustice to Claire, who looked only inwards and reflected very little upon the effect of her dealings on other people. She pretended now to not to have heard Ellen, but Philip, following her down the back terraces and across the grass to the little copse by the river's edge, said nervously: “I don't know why you wanted to go and suggest this. You've upset Ellen now.”

Claire stopped, looking stricken. “Oh, no!–do you think I have? I–I'll go back, shall I? I'll go back and say she must come; I'll tell her that we really
do
want her … Which is perfectly true; I mean, Philip, because, of course, I'd like her to come just for the walk …”

Philip caught at her arm and pulled her on. “For heaven's sake, no, don't start another scene.”

If Claire could not have a scene with Ellen, she would have one here and now with Philip; she was in the state of nervous anxiety that cried for an outlet. “You seem very tender of Ellen's feelings, all of a sudden.”

“Just because she laughs and doesn't make fusses, it needn't necessarily mean that she doesn't feel things.”

Claire looked reproachfully, drooping her exquisite lower lip. “That's not what you said when you–when we started all this … And it's a bit late now …”

“Yes,” said Philip, “it's too late now.”

They had passed into the wood, out of sight of the house. She stopped and faced him, looking up at him. “What do you mean by that, Philip–‘too late now?' Are you regretting things already? Are you sorry that we fell in love?” Her beautiful mouth worked and twisted, and for the first time he knew, for a fleeting second, what Ellen meant when she said that Claire “made faces”: but the moment passed. “Claire, don't be unkind, darling, don't let's be unkind to each other, for God's sake, when everything else is so awful and horrible.”

The corn-coloured head came just up to his heart. “Oh, Philip, my love!” At her voice, at the weight of her clinging and the suppliance of her hands, a flame ran through him; a flame of something worthier than mere physical longing, a passion of tenderness and protectiveness because she was so deeply vulnerable with her craving for love and compassion, because she was tender and satisfying in the love and compassion she gave. “Oh, Claire–we're two wretched people not knowing what on God's earth to do about it all …”

“When all this is over, darling, all this nightmare about Grandfather's death, we shall be able to go away and be together …”

He was troubled, he put her a little away from him. “We ought not really to be–like this–in the middle of all this tragedy and mystery and muddle … And suppose the will never turns up …”

“Then the old will stands, Philip, and we shall both get our bit of money and Ellen will be all right. In any case, that silly old draft thing couldn't count. But I must say it's
extraordinary
,” said Claire, moving away from him altogether, and staring out over the river, “where the thing can have got to. Who can have any motive in hiding it?”

Philip looked round as though the very trees lent listening ears. He lowered his voice. “Of course, if–if Edward–if he had anything to do with this–I mean it wouldn't matter how irrational it was …”

Claire was silent. She said at last: “Do you really think it was Edward, Philip? Do you really think he's–well, funny in the head?”

“What other explanation is there, Claire? And what's so terrifying is that if he did it, he's still got that bloody strychnine; I mean, it's terrifying, because he needn't have any more reason to use that, than he had to kill Grandfather, so one can't guard against it. I don't know–I'm wondering if I ought to do something about getting him–Well–certified or something.”

“
Certified? Edward?
” cried Claire, horror-stricken.

“Well, my dear, the situation's so frightful! One can't just let things go on like this.”

“But certify him–our Edward?”

“Actually I don't suppose he is certifiable,” said Philip. “Unless, of course, he did kill the old boy … Oh, God, I don't know … But at least he ought to be under some supervision.”

“But, Philip, you wouldn't hand him over to the police as a murderer?”

“No, of course not,” said Philip, helplessly. “And yet …”

“But if you had him–certified, or–or supervised–or any of those things, why it's a plain admission that he did it. Oh, you
can't
, Philip,
promise
me that you won't …”

“Poor kid,” said Philip. “The Lord knows, I don't want to do him any harm.” He looked about him uneasily. “You must be terribly careful, Claire, that's all; we must all just be frightfully careful, and watch him; you girls mustn't be alone with him … It's just in
case
…” For how could one know that he was not there, near to them, even now; poor crazy boy, lurking behind the trees in the sunny little wood, crouching, ready with death in his hands, for any stray victim that might pass; or urged on by some hideous compulsion against himself or Claire. “You must be careful, promise me you'll be careful, darling. They–they get very strong, often, and rather sort of–cunning …”

On the front lawn, Edward sat with his long legs spread out before him, earnestly making a daisy chain, with Brough's granddaughter, Rosy-Posy, squatted beside him giving bossy advice, and Antonia staggering erratically about the grass, picking the pink and white heads off the flowers. Indoors, Bella, maddened by Ellen's refusal to dither and weep, fretfully disarranged the careful heap of envelopes. “I must say, Ellen, I think it's very unwise to let Philip go off with Claire like that; especially after what Edward said at lunch yesterday …” (Had it really only been yesterday?)

Ellen, inwardly flinching, took the envelopes irritably out of her hands. “A fine mess you'd be in, if I went off gooseberrying at this stage!” She added, half mocking at her own lofty attitude, half desperately sincere: “Besides–I wouldn't condescend!”

Bella swerved over in defence of “the family.” “Claire is doing nothing underhand.”

“Oh, I'm saying nothing against darling Claire, Bella, don't worry! If the only way she can get a husband is to go off with mine, and if she
can
get him, well, they're both welcome to each other, that's all. Far be it from me to spoil love's not-so-young dream,” said Ellen airily, but she slapped the envelopes together and secured them with a very vicious snap of their rubber band. “All I ask is that my child and I shall eat.”

Bella looked at her curiously. She said slowly: “It would certainly have been awkward for
you
, Ellen, if Richard had signed away Philip's legacy.”

Ellen raised her intelligent eyebrows. “Good gracious, Bella, you've thought out a Theory, all by yourself!” But it made her angry and a little afraid. She paid back the implication and with good measure, glancing out of the window where Edward sat innocently, long legs stretched out before him, “minding the baby” on the lawn. “I wonder if we're wise to let Edward play with Antonia?”

Bella flamed scarlet. “I don't know what you mean? What are you suggesting?”

“Only that with that thing of strychnine missing … And after all, Sir Richard
is
dead,
isn't
he?”

“Are you suggesting that Edward killed his grandfather?”

Ellen shrugged. “I thought it was quite understood.”

“But he … You don't believe he … Good God,” cried Bella pitifully, staring out to where the dark head was bent, intent upon the chain of daisies and buttercups. “I'd rather you accused
me
, Ellen, of such a thing, than that–that poor harmless boy …”

Ellen rattled pens and pencils tidying up the desk. “Well, perhaps it was you. That wouldn't surprise me either.” She added sweetly: “After all, if Edward's mad, he must have got it from somewhere–and you're his grandmother!” and marched away down the front steps and scooped up her baby and carried it off upstairs, there to weep bitterly, lying face down on her bed, tears of self-pity and self-reproach, of anger, jealousy, and fear.

Murder! The big white house sprawled lazily in the sunshine, cloudless blue skies burned down upon green lawns, the air was sweet with the scent of roses and mown grass; and through the white house and across the green grass Murder stalked in the sunshine. Up in her bedroom, Ellen wept into her pillow. Down in the woodland, Philip and Claire kissed and clung, and could not keep the thought of a dead man's money from their minds. Up and down the gravelled drive, Peta walked with her love and would not speak kindly to him because he had brought all this trouble upon them, “instead of just letting poor Grandfather be buried and not making any fuss.” On the marble terrace Bella walked listlessly, her pretty face swollen with tears of pity and loneliness and grief; and down on the lawn among the buttercups and daisies Edward grew weary of Rosy-Posy's artless prattle and suddenly wondered what it would be like to stick a hypodermic needle into her, and whether it was himself, the real Edward, just thinking it to frighten himself, or whether it was his other self who had put the thought into his head–and whether he was mad, whether he was dangerous, whether he was already once a murderer …

That night over dinner, eyeing one another distrustfully, they kept up a brave pretence that it was all a mistake, that Grandfather had died a natural death, that there was some simple explanation about the missing strychnine which would soon explain itself. Next morning the Inspector brought the result of the post-mortem examination up to the house. An enormous overdose of coramine.