There Came Both Mist and Snow (21 page)

It could not be denied that Basil’s logic had gone momentarily off the rails; he acknowledged this himself with a nod which must have caused him a good deal of physical discomfort. ‘Very well. I merely offer you, then, a simpler explanation of why Wilfred was not killed.
Killing Wilfred was not the intention of the person who fired the shot.
’

‘You mean that the shot was meant for yourself?’ Leader’s pencil suspended itself in air. Very faintly, Appleby sighed.

‘I mean’ – Basil’s voice was perfectly patient again – ‘that the person who fired the shot at Wilfred didn’t mean to
kill
Wilfred. Or not outright.’ Basil paused and appeared to take a long breath. ‘Geoffrey, is that not so?’

On me at least the words had the effect of physical impact. That Geoffrey should hurl a reckless accusation at his uncle was not out of keeping with much in his character. But that Basil should promptly retort the charge upon his nephew appeared for a moment unbelievably horrible. And for the second time in this fantastic conference I was prompted to attempt intervention. ‘Basil,’ I cried, ‘stop, in heaven’s name! It isn’t so. Haven’t we had mad talk enough?’

I found that in my excitement I had jumped to my feet. Now I sat down trembling. I was aware of Appleby’s eye upon me – an oddly approving eye considering the incoherence of what I had said. And once more I was powerfully aware that of everything that was going on in the library this quiet young man was indefinably in control. The others, too, I think, were becoming aware of this; it was to Appleby and not to Leader that Basil was clearly addressing himself.

‘We have had mad talk only as a consequence of mad action – action so mad that I should be failing in my duty if I did not expose it. Geoffrey is guilty of the attack on Wilfred. And his motive was mere avarice.’

Geoffrey, who had not spoken since his own theory of the crime had been exploded, said nothing now. But he laughed. In the circumstances it was a curiously inoffensive laugh, brief and unforced.

But Basil paid no attention. ‘Geoffrey and Anne have been mad to get something out of Wilfred; they seem to consider it a right. And Wilfred has been putting Anne off – injudiciously, I think it must be said. And I believe there has been another cause of friction – probably of passion – which I shall not mention in this rather large gathering.’

Basil put a weary hand to his bandaged head. The possible emotional tangle between Wilfred, his ward, and Geoffrey was certainly not a thing to air. But it was the only basis that I could see for building up any sort of case. It occurred to me that Wale would have done well to insist on getting Basil away. This turning upon Geoffrey was wholly unlike him, and the clearest evidence that his judgement was clouded by the attack he had suffered. But plainly he had to go forward now with what he had to say.

‘Geoffrey’s action has turned upon an old calculation as to Wilfred’s behaviour in certain circumstances. Wilfred had settled nothing upon Anne. He had bequeathed her nothing. But he had every intention of doing so, and his delay proceeded, it would appear, simply from a foolish desire to preserve a sense of power. But if put in mortal danger – dying or believing he was about to die – Wilfred would do what he conceived to be the right thing.’ Basil smiled grimly. ‘And what Geoffrey and Anne believed to be the right thing. And that is why Geoffrey didn’t shoot to kill outright.’

Basil sank back in his chair amid a dead silence, and once more Wale got up and moved across the room towards him. And then Basil spoke again. ‘Arthur can witness to the moment at which the plan was put in Geoffrey’s head – unwittingly, I hope and believe – by Anne. It was when–’

Basil’s voice tailed off, exhausted. Everybody looked in my direction. I hesitated, though there had come to me a sudden realization of what was meant. Then I decided that Basil’s case, such as it was, had better out. ‘Yesterday morning during the revolver-practice,’ I said, ‘Geoffrey and Anne were talking – resentfully, I fear – about Wilfred’s attitude. Basil must have come up in time to hear the end of it.’ I hesitated in an effort to remember accurately. ‘What Anne finally said was this:
“Wilfred is going to gather his dependents round the death-bed. And then how infinitely charitable he will be”
.’

Leader’s pencil snapped at the point. Anne’s wretched witticism could not have been brought out more effectively, I suppose, than thus at the tail of Basil’s accusation. And the whole company turned to look at her now.

She was sitting beside Geoffrey and she had put her hand on his. ‘Geoffrey put out his story,’ she said steadily, ‘because he is impulsive and a bit of a blackguard. But Basil can have put out his only because that crack has sent him a bit off his head. He knows much better. Arthur, isn’t that so?’

‘Basil’s theory,’ I said gently, ‘is certainly all wrong.’

‘Geoffrey is a painter.’ Anne’s voice was at its hardest, but I could see that her lips were trembling. ‘All this domestic mess he leaves to me. I assure you’ – she turned to Appleby with something of her habitual serious mockery – ‘he would never shoot anyone unless I told him to. And Wilfred, as Basil ought to know, is a person whom…whom I have always rather liked. Even’ – her face became suddenly a child’s – ‘even if he is a mean and tantalizing old pig.’

‘May I ask–’ began Leader, and stopped. Anne had burst into tears.

This was the point at which Lucy Chigwidden confessed. She stood up and said in a loud voice: ‘I confess.’

Appleby looked at the clock and I wondered if the extraordinary entertainment we were putting up was beginning to bore him. It was he, however, who took charge of Lucy – and indeed from now onwards he was to bear a more active part in the proceedings. ‘Madam,’ he said gravely, ‘do I understand that you confess to the attempted murder of your nephew, Wilfred Foxcroft?’

‘Yes,’ said Lucy firmly – and added a moment later: ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No – not of my nephew. Of my brother. I tried to murder Basil. Twice.’ Lucy looked round the room, as if to command all our attention. ‘Twice,’ she repeated emphatically.

Mervyn Wale put on his glasses and studied Lucy across the room, much as if he were meditating calling in Beevor once more. Ralph Cambrell, who was sitting disregarded in a corner, began to fiddle with his hat as if he would much like to clap it on his head and escape. Horace Cudbird was fidgeting too; I was increasingly sure that he felt himself to have something really decisive stored up. At the Voice I did not venture to look, but I have no doubt whatever that he was repressing his emotions only with considerable effort.

And now Lucy rose and walked slowly across the room to Anne and Geoffrey. She laid a protective hand on the shoulder of each. ‘In this monstrous charge against these poor lambs,’ she said, ‘one vital point has been overlooked: the attack on Basil just before all this discussion began. If they succeeded in what they planned against Wilfred last night, why should they turn and attack Basil this morning?’ Lucy looked at us vaguely, as if trying to recapture the thread of her remarks. ‘But, as I say, I confess.’ She began to hunt about her chair for her handbag, as if the matter were now settled and we might disperse. Suddenly a thought seemed to strike her. ‘The motive,’ she said; ‘I quite forgot the motive. I hate Basil. Intensely. I have hated him from the nursery. The motive is that.’ She rummaged anew.

Appleby leant forward. ‘A motive is always useful,’ he said gravely. ‘But could you let us have a little evidence as well?’

‘Evidence?’ Lucy looked most surprised. ‘But I
confess
.’

‘My dear Mrs Chigwidden, I am afraid that your confession, however vigorous, will never get you convicted. Evidence of some sort there must be.’

‘Lucy, my dear’ – Hubert Roper spoke for the first time – ‘don’t look so put out. We will all think you up some evidence if you want it. And what about this? Wilfred was most inefficiently shot. It is increasingly clear that the major puzzle of the affair is in that. If one wants to kill a man one goes for his head or his heart. Yet this shot, fired at a few paces, gets Wilfred in the right side.’ Hubert paused and looked round the room. ‘Now, could anyone except Lucy make quite such a muddle? Who hasn’t seen her dip her pen in the cream jug and put sugar in her soup? Isn’t she the only person one can imagine as getting things exactly the wrong way round – mistaking one man for another and his right side for his left?’ Hubert turned to Appleby. ‘Search no further,’ he said lazily. ‘You’ve got your man.’

I suppose Lucy’s performance may be said to have done credit to her motherly heart. In the abstract world which she largely inhabited tears were no doubt a symbol of guilt, and she had accepted Anne’s in that sense. Her attempted confession, however, had a woolly quality which I found irritating – though not so irritating as Hubert’s trivial and untimely embroidery upon the mystery. With Hubert – and for reasons which must presently appear – I felt really angry. So did Horace Cudbird. Cudbird stood up. ‘I am going to explain,’ he said, ‘what happened last night.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Voice muttering urgently to Leader. He may have been insisting – very reasonably – that in point of explanations we had already reached
l’embarras de richesses
. His expostulations, however, ceased abruptly: I imagine at some sign from Appleby. Cudbird was allowed to proceed. But not before Anne, whose power of recovery from emotion was rapid, had re-established herself as ironic chorus.

‘A little bird has told Mr Cudbird all about it. Doubtless a canary.’

Cudbird nodded his head emphatically. ‘Yes, the canaries have had a hand in it, I don’t deny. But for studying their ways I doubt whether I should have hit on the truth. Or but for that and an awakening interest in art.’

‘New interests everywhere.’ Automatically, Geoffrey chimed in on Anne’s note. ‘Has everyone heard of Cecil gathering rosebuds while he might? One wonders if Rose fell.’

With considerable presence of mind the Voice bent a severe eye upon the constable who was inclined to snigger. For a moment Geoffrey’s joke hung uncomfortably in the air and then Cudbird went on.

‘The trouble clearly starts with Sir Basil’s proposal to sell Belrive and put most of the proceeds into an expensive expedition. A good many people might be worried by that.’ Cudbird paused. He was speaking with a deliberation that accorded impressively with a natural weight in the man. I felt my heart beating faster; I was convinced that he really had something to say. ‘A good many people might be worried. Quite suddenly, and as the result of what might very well appear a whim, a sizeable fortune is going – as somebody put it – to be fired at the moon. Or, at any rate, to melt away in the blizzard and the snow.’

Appleby, who had been staring into the fire, transferred his gaze to the ceiling.

‘Mr Roper, here’ – and Cudbird nodded curtly at Hubert – ‘might be worried. He is the heir. I don’t suppose he would lose every expectation under Sir Basil’s proposed dispositions. But certainly he would lose a good deal – including the actual estate, to which he may very well be more attached than his brother.’

Appleby lowered his eye, caught my own, and nodded gravely. Then he returned to the contemplation of the plaster above his head.

‘Mr Roper might be worried, one can clearly see. And now about my canaries.’ Cudbird squared his shiny jacket on his shoulders and swept the room with his oddly compelling eye; he enjoyed this abrupt transition. ‘There are times when one of the creatures has to be put in a cage by itself. And often, poor thing, it is inclined to mope… And now, I am afraid, I must get a bit personal. I want you all to take a look at Sir Basil, there.’

We looked at Basil, wondering what connection might exist between him and the moping canary. It afforded me some satisfaction to see that Appleby was looking frankly puzzled.

‘There’s a resemblance – a family likeness – between Sir Basil and his nephews, Cecil and Wilfred. That I’ve already remarked to some of you here. But it’s not a strong resemblance. Wilfred, from what I saw of him, is uncommonly like Cecil; the two of them are – though less markedly – like Sir Basil. It would be easier to take Wilfred for Cecil or Cecil for Wilfred than it would be to take either for Sir Basil.’ Cudbird paused to let this sink in. ‘And now let me recall something that Mr Roper said a few minutes back. He said that Mrs Chigwidden here is the only person one can imagine as getting things exactly the wrong way round. But that’s just what the canary can do when you give it a bit of mirror.’

Cudbird had made his effect. Hubert jerked suddenly upright in his seat, his laziness or affectation of laziness gone. The rest of us stared in fascination at the little brewer.

‘When the bird is lonesome I’ve tried sometimes giving it a piece of mirror for companionship’s sake. Two things happen. It pays a great deal of attention to the mirror. And it gets thoroughly confused. These two things are just what Mr Roper has been doing.’

‘That,’ said Hubert Roper, ‘is true.’

‘Look at his sketches. They are obviously the work of months. And they are all taken up with mirrors: one mirror, two mirrors, three mirrors – even four. Sketches of the reflection of a reflection – a fascinating technical exercise I don’t doubt.’

I remembered that odd scene between Hubert and Geoffrey when Geoffrey had offered advice on the composition of Cecil’s picture. Hubert had said something about slaving at just such sketches till he felt like Alice in the looking-glass. In this particular at least there was no doubt that Cudbird was on the spot. And there was a deadly effectiveness in the way he was developing his thought. It made everything that we had heard so far appear the merest beating in the air.

‘You see the relevance of this to the grand puzzle in the whole affair: the fact that Wilfred Foxcroft was shot through the right lung. Work with an artist’s intense concentration day after day at these tricks of reflection and you may very well find yourself thoroughly confused in a crisis. Constantly you have been putting on paper or canvas a left which you know is a right or a right which you know is a left. And then you step up to a brightly lit window and try to get a man in the heart. If you get his right lung instead – well, I for one won’t be surprised.’