Crooked Wreath (8 page)

Into the drawing-room!

But he had just told himself that he had not been in the drawing-room yesterday evening. He had forgotten, of course, about fetching the radio; anybody might forget a little thing like that. And yet … He had told the family, just now, that he hadn't been in the drawing-room; none of them had noticed that he must have been to have got the radio–or
had
they noticed, had they said nothing to him, had they only pretended to believe? They had glanced at each other uneasily, wretchedly, and said that a–a vase had been found knocked over in the drawing-room; and they asked him if he remembered, if he thought he had had another of his “little turns …” “Like yesterday, darling … I mean, before lunch yesterday you did–you did drop the tray and the sherry glasses, and you fainted afterwards and didn't–didn't know anything about it all until we told you …” How could he explain to them that of course he remembered, of course, he had known all about it, that he had done it all purposely, or sort of purposely, that he had been staging these things for years; staging things until they had become half real, even to him. But were they only half real? Had they not grown quite real, had some of them always been real, things that he didn't remember, that he had never known anything about? He knew that the family were afraid, in their hearts, that he had killed Grandfather. At half-past seven, Ellen had seen Grandfather, alive and well; by nine o'clock, Brough had finished sanding the paths, and the evidence of the footprints showed that nobody had gone near the lodge after that. Between those times, the family had been all together–except for him. Between those times, only he, Edward, could possibly have gone down to the lodge; and in the drawing-room was the sign that he had had “one of his little attacks.” They thought that he had gone into the drawing-room, to fetch the radio; that he had caught sight of the wreath and looked up at it again, and again lost consciousness; that, unsettled and ill-tempered as he had been all day–as they all had been that day–evil had insinuated itself into his unresistant mind; that he had taken the poisons and gone down to the lodge, before Brough began his sanding, and there had killed Grandfather. He could easily have done it in the time, and he could not say that he had not. Philip and Claire and Peta had whispered together, they had called Bella over and whispered to her, while Ellen sat beside him, talking to him quietly, asking him, as though she believed him, how he had really spent his time. But she did not believe him. She had gone to the others at last and he had seen that, coolly and matter-of-factly, she was acquiescing with all they said. They were going to try to protect him, they were going to lie about him, they were banded together to shield him from the consequences of what he, in his innocence, had done. Stephen–cold, just, quiet, relentless Stephen–had been safely away down by the lodge; Philip had gone out to the terrace and found the camera, which had been there on the balustrade all night, and had examined it. There was a new film in it all right. But Philip, at first rejoicing, had then reluctantly worked out a time schedule. A minute or two in the cloakroom, trying to be sick; a minute or two in the drawing-room, glancing up, losing consciousness, robbing the bag standing unlocked on a chair where he, Philip, had left it after the incident just before lunch; three minutes, two minutes, running across the lawn to the lodge–five minutes, if you would–to knock at the window and obtain admittance; to tell Grandfather some hurried tale about an injection ordered by Philip, or without preamble to thrust the needle into the arm of an old man utterly unsuspecting and so disarmed. Two minutes more to run back again across the grass. Five, six, seven minutes left to sit, gradually recovering from the trance, out on the balustrade of the front terrace; to notice the camera, to put the new film in, to stroll to the back terrace, unaware and innocent, and yet a murderer! It could have been done; and he knew that this was what, beneath their loyal self-deception, they believed had been done.

He sat in the armchair, digging with shaking fingers into the padded arms. Cockrill, in the centre of the little group, rolled himself the fourth of a chain of untidy, wispy cigarettes. “Very well. Thank you for all you've told me. In return, I'm going to tell you something; I must warn you that I don't like the look of this at all. I think it's perfectly conceivable that Sir Richard has been murdered; or, if you want to put it more prettily, assisted out of a world that the killer may have thought he would soon be leaving anyway. And if he was murdered, it seems to me more than likely it was by somebody from this house.”

If he had expected an uproar, thought Edward, he must have been disappointed. They had long ago accustomed themselves to that idea. But oh! why must they allow themselves to glance up at the picture like that, at the wreath of roses now replaced neatly above the gilt frame, at the stain on the parquet where the water had soaked in. Cockie didn't miss those glances, not he! He pointed to the mark on the floor with the toe of his small, shabby shoe. “What's this?”

“What's what, Cockie?”

“What's this stain?”

“I dropped a vase of flowers in here last night,” said Claire, coolly. “It's the water from the vase.”

But they were not very good at deception. Cockrill watched their eyes travel towards the small rug nearer the fireplace, and then pounced: “Why has that rug been moved? That's the one that was here, where the water was spilt–you can see that the corner of it's still wet. Why was it changed with the one that's here now?”

“Well, good gracious, Cockie, they got changed when the room was done; what's wrong with that?”

“Who did the room?” said Cockrill.

A desperate silence. Then: “I did,” said Bella and Peta and Claire, all together.

“What time did you do it?” asked Cockrill swiftly.

Nobody answered. “What time?” insisted Cockrill to Bella.

Bella shrugged her plump shoulders and fluttered her hands. “Dear Inspector Cockrill, what ever can it matter?”

“Don't ‘dear Inspector' me, Lady March. You're all keeping something back from me. Now–what time was this room done?”

“At about ten o'clock,” said Bella sullenly. “We only have one woman now, a ‘help' from the village, and she didn't get here till late this morning …”

“Oh.” He fished in the pockets of his droopy grey flannel suit and produced his shaggy tin of tobacco and a packet of cigarette papers. “So at nine-forty-five you hear the news of Sir Richard's death, and a quarter of an hour later you all turn to and spring-clean the drawing-room.”

Ellen sat on the arm of a sofa in her tight, brief yellow linen dress, tapping the toe of her neat tan shoe against the parquet. “What's so extraordinary? We came in here to learn the news, here was this mess of water and broken glass in the middle of the room, and we were all stepping over it and around it and it was in the way. So we cleared it up and dried the floor and moved the wet rug so that it shouldn't get stepped on. That's the way it
is
with death,
is
n't it? The other people have to go on living.”

It would have been more effective if they had not all turned upon her eyes of such passionate gratitude at this timely rescue, this cool return to a sense of proportion and sanity. Cockrill could not quite understand it; but he stored the whole incident away in his mind and returned to matters more obviously concerned with the case. “Now, Dr. March–you told me about those ampoules of coramine missing from your bag. In your grandfather's case, at any rate, these would have been sufficient to cause death?”

“Yes, they would, certainly. His heart was already in a very poor condition and such over-stimulation might easily cause it to peter out altogether.”

“Is his appearance consistent with this having happened?” As Philip paused, looking a trifle taken aback at having this question put to himself, Cockrill added: “Naturally there will have to be a post-mortem, and all this will be checked; the police surgeon is coming along very shortly, I hope. But, meanwhile, it would help me to have your opinion.”

“I see. Well, yes, I think the post-mortem appearance does bear out such a–well, such a possibility. I didn't think of it, when I first saw him, of course; I wasn't looking for unnatural signs; I'd expected him to die one day, just the way he did. None of this would ever have entered my head, if I hadn't found the coramine missing. There's certainly no indication that he
didn't
die of an overdose.” He glanced at Bella's tearful face and added sarcastically: “I suppose you will spare us a more detailed disquisition upon the subject, just at the moment.”

Bella understood him and gave him a tremulous smile of gratitude. Cockrill ignored the entire remark. “Can you tell me, Doctor, how the fatal dose was administered?”

“Well, the theft of the syringe would suggest that it was injected hypodermically.”

“I'll do the suggesting,” said Cockie, tartly. “Could the dose have been taken by the mouth? Would you know by the post-mortem signs?”

“No, you wouldn't. And what's more, the post-mortem examination isn't likely to reveal that either. Of course, death would follow more slowly if it was taken orally; and Grandfather was still sitting at his desk, which would seem to show …” He broke off. “Oh–but I must let you do the suggesting, mustn't I?”

Cockrill acknowledged this thrust with a bleak smile. “I presume you didn't examine your grandfather for the marks of a hypodermic needle?”

“I tell you, I had no idea he'd died anything but a natural death. In any event, he's probably covered with marks of hypodermic needles; he's been having injections from Dr. Brown, down here.”

Cockrill moved from the subject of the coramine. “I suppose there's no possibility that it was the strychnine which might have been used? There would be indications of that?”

“Just slight indications,” said Philip; he was very weary and anxious, and his voice began to rise and to grow in rapidity as he lost control. “My grandfather's corpse would have been stiffened into a horrible, convulsive arch, probably supported by the head and the heels; his eyes would have been starting out of his head, his face cyanosed and his hands and feet curved and stiffened into claws …” He knew that he was talking nonsense, that in death the more dreadful symptoms would have passed; but he bitterly piled on the agony, relieving his pent-up feelings by the ugliness and violence of his words. It was as good as swearing: and he thus swore at length and with fluency. At the end of it, Cockrill simply said coolly: “I see. Then you think the strychnine was not used?”

“Precisely,” said Philip. “How did you guess?”

It seemed so unwise and dangerous to be making an enemy of Inspector Cockrill. Cockie was so quick and acute, he would know that they were all on edge, that they shared some secret, that they were afraid of him–afraid for themselves, or for one of themselves. Edward shrank back in his big chair, looking on helplessly, wishing that Philip wouldn't be so impatient and irritable, wouldn't by his nervousness so clearly show his hand. Cockrill, however, merely said: “We must all realize that this lethal dose of poison is still missing; whether or not there has been one murder, there is danger all round us here …” He turned away from Philip. “You have all told me how you spent the evening, and how you went down to the lodge before dinner. What happened there? Peta, you and Lady March went down first?”

“Yes, I carried the tray of supper things.”

“Who prepared this meal?”

“Our old hag did,” said Bella. “The Turtle we call her; the woman who comes up from the village. I really forget what her name is.”

“Well, I'll inquire into her afterwards. Had you been near this tray or near any of Sir Richard's food, Lady March, before that?”

“No, I hadn't. If you mean to suggest … Well, you can ask them in the kitchen,” cried Bella, angrily. “I never went near the food. You can ask them.”

“I shall,” said Cockrill.

Philip's rage deepened. “Have you any right, Inspector, to be questioning us like this? You've got no authority here, yet. There's been no–no charge, or anything like that …”

“You called me in yourselves,” said Cockrill, calmly. “You do want to get to the bottom of this affair, don't you?”

They all glared at Stephen. This was what came of Cockie “not fussing if there was nothing to fuss about.” Cockrill, however, gave his attention to his cigarette, standing on one foot to squash the stub out against the sole of the other shoe. He went on, as though there had been no interruption: “Well, so the woman handed you the tray, Lady March?”

“Yes, she did, she came out on the terrace with it, and I took it straight from Bella and we went down to the lodge,” said Peta. She added triumphantly that the whole thing had been weighted down with vast great covered silver dishes, let alone china and glass and stuff, and that if Cockrill thought a person could balance a tray like that in one hand while they put poison on the food with the other, that was where he was wrong.

Cockrill seized upon the only point that interested him. “Covered silver dishes?”

“Yes, covered. So there, Bella darling, we couldn't have squirted poison onto Grandfather's food even if we'd wanted to.” She looked compassionately at Bella's round face, all stained and quivering with tears, trying desperately to throw a little spirit into this horrible game of question and answer, to try to make it seem a game in truth, and not the deadly quicksand that it was.

“What did you do, Peta, while your grandfather ate his supper?”

“Well I–what did I do, Bella? You sat on the sill of the un-French window delivering your oration about his coming back to sleep at the house and not staying there alone, and I …” Her eyes grew wary, Cockrill knew that she was counting her words. “I rang up the house about his fountain pen. I told you about that, Cockie.”