The Affair of the Bloodstained Egg Cosy (24 page)

Wilkins spoke very quietly. 'Now don't be silly, sir. This isn't going to get you anywhere.' He moved towards Thornton.

Thornton swung round and levelled the gun at him. 'I said nobody move. That includes you.'

From behind him, Deveraux said: 'You can't shoot everyone, Thornton.'

Thornton spun round again and pointed the automatic at Deveraux. He licked his lips and cast a quick glance over his shoulder towards Wilkins and Leather. Then his eyes flickered. 'Perhaps not,' he snapped, 'but I can shoot one.'

He was standing behind Jane's chair, and as he spoke he leaned forward, grabbed her by the arm and jerked her to her feet.

'If anybody moves an inch, she'll be the first to go.'

He threw his arm round her neck, pulled her backwards against his chest, and pressed the muzzle of the gun against her temple.

The first shock lasted a few seconds. Then Jane felt quite calm. The cold metal against her head worried her less than the pressure of Thornton's arm on her throat. She saw the ring of white horrified faces, etched sharp and still as a photograph. She realised that Wilkins and Deveraux had both drawn back, helpless.

Thornton was backing towards the door, dragging Jane awkwardly with him. Closer and closer they got to it, and the pressure of his arm was making her eyes water.

Thornton said: 'That's stopped you in your tracks, hasn't it?' He gave Jane another jerk backwards, causing her ankle to knock painfully against the leg of a chair. 'Come on, girl. Don't dawdle.'

Then Jane lost her temper.

The humiliation of what was being done to her swept over her. How dare he treat her like this? She wouldn't put up with it for another second.

She raised her hands, yanked Thornton's wrist towards her mouth, and bent her head. Taken quite by surprise, Thornton let the pistol slip away from her head, and at that instant Jane gripped his hand between her teeth and bit as hard as she could.

Thornton gave a howl and snatched his arm away. Jane drove her elbow hard into his stomach, then leapt away from him as his gun arm flailed wildly in the air.

Already Giles Deveraux was moving. He sprang at Thornton. With one hand he grabbed the wrist holding the gun, and with the other he landed a crisp right cross to the point of Thornton's jaw and sent him flying.

One minute later, Edward Thornton was on his feet again -handcuffed and firmly in the grasp of Sergeant Leather.

Gasping, Thornton addressed Deveraux. 'Listen - I admit I took a bribe. The ten thousand was a down payment. I was to receive a further ten when I handed over the details of certain African territory. But I am not in the pay of any foreign power. I was given the money by some Scandinavian. He was acting on behalf of a private individual - a financier who wants to buy up land there in advance, as a commercial venture. It wouldn't harm this country's interests.'

'No,' Richard said coldly, 'only cheat thousands of poor people out of their rights.'

'I'd bet my bottom dollar that old buzzard Zapopulous is behind it,' Peabody said.

'I don't know,' Thornton said. 'I only dealt with this Scandinavian. I thought it would be easy. But Batchev wouldn't part with the information. By Saturday night I was desperate. That's when I decided to search his room to see if I could find any papers giving the information. How was I to know he was bogus and didn't have it himself? I tried to drug him so he wouldn't wake: I slipped several sleeping tablets into his coffee after dinner. I didn't realise till the next day that Fotheringay had drank it instead. And of course I didn't know somebody else had done the same thing.'

Lord Burford gave a long low whistle and stared at Algy with something like awe. 'By jove, no wonder the feller slept.'

'You're very lucky to have escaped with your life, Fotheringay,' Deveraux said.

Algy gave a smirk. 'I've always been jolly tough. Once—'

'Go on, Thornton,' Deveraux said.

'I went to Batchev's room just before two-fifteen. Batchev wasn't there. I couldn't understand it, but I started searching. After about two or three minutes, I heard the door opening. I naturally assumed it was Batchev and I hid behind the wardrobe. Nothing happened and eventually I tried to get to the door. You know what happened then. I managed to get out and ran back to my own room, colliding with her' - he pointed to Jane - 'on the way. I went straight back to bed and stayed there until she roused me about thirty minutes later. And that's all I did. I panicked just now because the case looked so black against me. But I swear I am not a traitor. And I am not a murderer. I did not shoot Batchev.'

Deveraux looked at him, his face expressionless. Then, before he could answer, Inspector Wilkins spoke again.

'I know that,' he said quietly.

* * *

An absolutely stunned silence greeted Wilkins' words. It seemed that no one could even gasp. Again it was Richard who produced the first coherent words. 'Wilkins - are you now saying it was not Thornton who shot Batchev?'

'That's right, sir.'

'Then just why did you let Deveraux accuse him of it?'

'I'm afraid it's a favourite ruse of mine, sir - to accuse someone of a major crime to get them to confess to a lesser one. I'm sorry to use it twice in one evening. But as we've got very little evidence, we had to get Mr. Thornton to own up to conspiracy and corruption. Unfortunately, I did not anticipate he would be armed.'

He gave a nod to Leather, who opened the door. Two more uniformed policemen came in. 'Take him away,' Wilkins said.

When the door had closed behind a dazed and speechless Thornton, Lord Burford said: 'Are you telling us now Burundi's cannon was not used to despatch Batchev's body?'

'Oh, it was used. But not by Thornton.'

'Then by whom, man?'

'And,' Gerry added, 'if it wasn't Batchev, Evans, or Mr. Thornton who went through the breakfast room window -who was it?'

'Nobody, Lady Geraldine.'

'Oh, come on! I saw him. We all did.'

Wilkins shook his head. 'No. That's what we were meant to think. By Batchev's killer.'

'This has gone on quite long enough.' The authoritative words came from the Countess. 'Mr. Wilkins, please tell us now who the murderer really was.'

'Very well, your ladyship. I will.' He turned and looked straight at Jane. 'I'm afraid it was this young lady.' His face was sad. 'Why did you do it, Miss Clifton?'

Jane met his gaze. For a moment her eyes wavered and dropped. But then she took a deep breath and lifted her head proudly.

'Because he drove my sister to suicide,' she said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The Reason Why

'As some of you here know,' Jane said, 'my sister was an actress. Her name was Jenny Howard - she changed it officially by deed-poll when she entered the profession and found there was another actress called, I think, Jenny Clinton.

'Jenny died three years ago in the United States. How she died was never made public. She was on tour with a theatrical company when she met a man who called himself Stewart Baldwin. All I ever knew about him was what I learnt from Jenny. He was supposed to be a freelance journalist who was doing a series of articles on the tour, and he travelled with the company for about eight weeks. Jenny fell madly in love with him. Then unexpectedly he told her he had to leave very soon on another assignment. He said he wanted to marry her, and asked her to go away with him. She cleared it with the manager and left a week later. She and Stewart were married by a Justice of the Peace in a little town in New Mexico. She wrote home the day after the wedding, saying she was deliriously happy and had no regrets at giving up her career.'

Jane drew at her cigarette. 'Although my mother and I were both sad that Jenny wouldn't be coming home, we made the best of it. Mother, however, had a strong feeling that the marriage wasn't going to work out, and she asked me to agree not to tell any of our friends about it, for the time being, just in case.

'For about six months Jenny travelled all over America with Stewart, staying in hotels and rooming-houses. During this time she had very little to do, and she used to write to us two or three times a week. She seemed absolutely crazy about Stewart, and she told us practically everything there was to know about him - all his likes and dislikes and habits and ways of talking. She also sent one blurred snapshot of him, which she'd managed to take without his knowledge, as she said he hated to be photographed. Meanwhile, the theatrical company had come home. When people asked about Jenny we simply told them she was staying on in the States for a bit. Of course, the stage people knew about her marriage, but they didn't come in contact with our circle at all.'

Jane stubbed out her cigarette. 'Then, during March, I came to stay here at Alderley. I'd told Jenny in one of my letters that I was coming, and while I was here I got a letter from her. She sent it here because she hadn't wanted Mother to know, but she was terribly worried and unhappy. They were moving round more and more, and sometimes Stewart would go away for days on end, leaving her in some poky rooming-house. He wouldn't talk about his work, and she couldn't understand what his assignment was supposed to be - he told her it was for some magazine she'd never heard of. Occasionally he'd take her to cocktail parties or receptions and introduce her to lots of people, but they'd never stay long and she wouldn't meet the people again. She said Stewart didn't ever seem actually to write anything and simply told her he was gathering copy. She said she'd just had to tell somebody, as she felt utterly alone and had no friends in America at all. She told me not to take too much notice of the letters she sent to Mother and me at home, but that she'd keep me informed of what was really happening by sending me letters to be called for at the post office.'

Jane looked at Gerry. 'I got that letter on the day of the Hunt Ball, do you remember? You couldn't understand what was wrong with me.'

Gerry nodded, but didn't speak.

'In May,' Jane went on, 'Jenny discovered she was going to have a baby. She was terribly excited, thinking it might make Stewart settle down. But when she told him he was furious. They had a blazing row and he stormed out. She never saw him again.

'She had practically no money, no home, and no one to turn to. She was frantic. Then two men arrived, looking for Stewart. They were Federal agents - G-men. They told her that Stewart was wanted for subversive activities. Baldwin wasn't his real name; he wasn't a journalist; he wasn't even an American citizen. He'd entered the country illegally eighteen months before. They also informed her gently that a year previously he'd married a woman in Illinois. She was still alive and the marriage had never been dissolved. So Jenny wasn't even legally married to him.'

Jane looked at Deveraux. 'I realise now what he'd done. He must have been impersonating someone who was known to be married, and for some reason he needed a real wife to produce sometimes for authenticity. Presumably the woman in Illinois had been unsuitable, or perhaps she'd found out the truth and told the authorities about him. He left her before the FBI arrived and got himself a cover by going round with the theatrical company. Probably he realised there might be a good chance of picking up another wife among the young actresses. He took up with Jenny, and then when the time came to renew his espionage work, he married her. When she told him about the baby, he knew she was going to be too tied down to be any further use to him.'

Deveraux nodded slowly and Jane continued. 'Jenny, I imagine, put on a very good act of being extremely calm and casual about it all. The G-men left, promising to inform the nearest British Consul about her plight.'

Jane took another cigarette with a hand that shook slightly. Richard lit it for her.

'Jenny was a very proud person,' she said. 'We all were. Perhaps too proud. Gerry tells me I am; I don't know. But Jenny was more sensitive than me and more highly strung. After the men had left, she wrote and told me the whole story. She said she couldn't bear the humiliation of corning home with an illegitimate baby, and not even knowing the father's real name. And especially she couldn't face Mother. She went out, mailed the letter, returned to her room and gassed herself.'

Jane looked up. Her eyes were moist, but her voice was steady as she continued. 'I told Mummy Jennifer had been taken ill and died of a very rare disease. The officials I dealt with were all very good and kept the secret. There were a few lines about her in some of the papers, but none of them said more than that she'd died suddenly. None of our friends ever knew the truth.

'I've carried Stewart Baldwin's photo with me ever since. Just so I never could forget. I had a feeling always that sometime, somewhere, I'd meet him. The very first time I saw him getting off the train last Thursday, I thought he looked vaguely familiar. Then when I was introduced to him on the terrace and heard that phony American accent, the sense of familiarity grew. I puzzled over it most of the next day. I think it was only a kind of subconscious rejection of the possibility of it being him that prevented me connecting him with Baldwin. It didn't really come to me until I was talking to him on Friday afternoon. He was obviously talking as himself, not as Mr. Adler, and he mentioned once having had an English girl friend who'd lived in the Cotswolds. That was almost certainly Jenny, because we used to live there. I was on the point of mentioning it when he took a drink. Now Jenny had told me that Stewart had the unusual mannerism of closing his eyes momentarily whenever he drank. Batchev did that very thing.

'It gave me a terrible jolt. I went up to my room and studied Baldwin's photo. I couldn't be sure even then that Baldwin was him. In the photo he had fair hair and a moustache, and, as I said, the picture was rather blurred and several years old. I didn't then even have the similarity of initials - SB - as an indication. You, Richard, and everybody else, accepted him as Martin Adler, a well-known European diplomat, and I couldn't see how it was possible for him to be Baldwin. So I set myself to finding out. I talked to him as much as I could and I watched him like a hawk. I know all Jenny's letters by heart, of course, and gradually I began to recognise in Batchev little things she had told me about Stewart. I won't go into them all now. They were things like preferences in food and drink, turns of phrase in speech, taste in clothes - Stewart always wore plain neckties, for instance, as Batchev did -smoking habits - always using cork-tipped cigarettes - and so on. Eventually I spotted about ten similarities. Then I was sure.'