Thirteen Guests (22 page)

“When Chater left the inn, he hesitated to return at once. He rode around. Maybe he lost himself. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he decided to return and face things. But when he got to Mile Bottom, he acted on impulse or design, took the tube from his hat, drained it, replaced it—and so ended his life.

“Why did he replace the tube? I had questioned Leng, and understand the poison would begin to work in about thirty seconds—and then work swiftly. He had time to replace it. His reason may have been just to get rid of it that way, instead of throwing it down, or he may have done so subconsciously. At a moment like this, knowing his end was upon him, a man's trivial actions would not necessarily answer to the normal rules of logic.

“And so we come finally to the last tragedy—Mrs. Chater.

“Her general attitude has been described, but her active participation in events did not begin until she was asked to identify the man who had been found in the quarry—Turner. Like Miss Wilding, she refused to view the body, saying she knew nothing of the man; and it was at this moment that her control gave way. In a full knowledge of the facts, her condition is easy to understand. Her husband had killed Turner. He was absent, and could not advise her. Moreover, she learned almost immediately afterwards that his horse had returned without him, and she was a distracted woman groping in the dark.

“Into that darkness entered the figure of Earnshaw. Earnshaw was a man who would benefit considerably by an accident to Chater. Her mind seized on this, and, after rushing up to her room and locking herself in, she obeyed a second impulse to leave the room and tackle Earnshaw on his way to his own room.

“But her short interview with him gave her no satisfaction. His threats increased her terror and her rage. On her way back to her bedroom, she saw Bultin put the knife in the drawer, and when, a little later, Dr. Pudrow gave her the news of her husband's death, the final threads of sanity snapped.

“We know how, profiting by the temporary absence of Pratt, she stole the knife from the drawer and descended to Earnshaw's room. The button Price found outside that door was the button I myself found, later, to be missing from her dress. (Her interview with Earnshaw had taken place by the stairs, some little way from the door.) We know that she found Earnshaw's door locked. We know that, using the information supplied by her husband on the previous night, she escaped from the house, went to the shed, found the bicycle Turner had left there, and rode away on it. Mad revenge, when thwarted, yielded to mad terror. She fled before the police came.

“It was ironic that, flying from danger, her means of escape should have played the final trick upon her. I have ascertained from the Smiths, to whom the bicycle belonged, that the chain was loose and constantly needed adjusting. Turner had ridden the bicycle hard on the previous day. It may be assumed that Mrs. Chater, on her last ride through the darkening lanes, rode it equally hard. A steep hill was her undoing. The constable who found her, and who notified us at Bragley Court, said she was already dead when he came upon her. The chain was off its wheel, and the knife lay in the road about five yards away.

“Mrs. Chater, from all accounts, must have been a pathetic creature. Probably she had little to look forward to, and the defective bicycle may have proved a blessing in disguise.

“Indeed, Fate has taken matters largely out of our own hands by dealing out justice to the various miscreants in her own way, saving in the case of the butler, Thomas, whose punishment is not our particular concern.”

As he closed the book, a thought struck him.

“Odd, I never found that flask!”

Chapter XXXII

The Truth

Man's calendar, saving when its events intrude, has no interest for other creatures. A kennel was empty, and there was one stag less in Flensham Woods, but otherwise life underwent no change in the bracken and the briar and the burrows, the trees and the streams around Bragley Court. The cock-pheasant did not know that a man had fallen down a quarry near his sanctuary of russet foliage, nor would he have cared a feather if he had. Man was an incomprehensible biped causing birds to shift from one place to another when he came too close, and occasionally sending loud bangs through long sticks; but the cock-pheasant had always avoided the bangs, and the idea that man possessed sensations to arouse pity or hatred or love did not exist. (The idea hardly existed in the more intelligent creature, despite his mental advantages, that a pheasant possessed sensations of any significance.) The sly old fox at Mile Bottom was similarly ignorant and callous. Had a man fallen from his horse near the fox's earthy home? Granted temporary speech and understanding, the fox might have stated in a Court of Law, “Yes, I do vaguely remember some disturbance or other. A horse nearly put his beastly hoof in my front door. But he didn't quite, and I was very drowsy, and really and truly I'm not in the least interested. Can I go now, please? You're thoroughly boring. I want to walk out with a badger.”

A hind wondered why her companion was not about to-day. These were disturbing times. Another stag had vanished into the void a week previously. But the hind did not cry her eyes out, and felt anxious mainly for her own safety, denied the comforting knowledge that, unlike yesterday, to-day her safety was ensured, and would remain so for many months to come.

In Bragley Court itself, however, life had completed a transformation. Faces that had smiled were grave. Voices normally resonant had dropped to whispers. None of the guests had departed, for an unwritten law was holding them to their engagements, but there was no enjoyment for them on this grim Sunday. They were merely awaiting the release of Monday morning.

And yet in certain breasts there was a sense of unvoiced relief. The tide of tragedy had ceased to flow, and there were no indications that it would flow again to drown survivors. Sir James Earnshaw, sensitive to every little breeze that blew, and subtly testing the situation in so far as it affected himself, began to hope that his past had died with those who had previously kept it alive. Kendall alone knew his secret now—and was Kendall interested officially? “Thank God I have escaped Bultin!” thought Earnshaw. The relief of this consoled him partially for the fact that Anne had also escaped from him.

Zena Wilding was another guest whose heart was beginning to beat more quietly. She tried to feel pity for the man who had duped her, and who now could trouble her no more, but her feelings were numb. She could not say whether official necessity or journalistic lust would force her story into momentary limelight. Perhaps an unpleasant experience lay ahead of her, and one morning she would find her name among the headlines. But she had been conscious of Kendall's sympathy when he had interviewed her; and even Bultin, as though events had stirred him out of his usual cynicism, had once given her a smile that was almost human.

But it was the Avelings themselves who had contributed most definitely to her comfort. In the privacy of their room Aveling had said to his wife, “I think, after all, my dear, I won't back that play.”

“Why not?” Lady Aveling had answered. “I heard Mr. Rowe telling you he was willing to back
you
if you did.” And then she had added, in a manner that had somehow taken him back many years, “We've always had pluck, you and I—the Avelings face things.”

Lady Aveling had then marched straight to Zena's room, and had told her the money would be found.

In the drawing-room, Edyth Fermoy-Jones murmured, “The evidence certainly points to suicide—one must admit that—but, well, there might be other theories.”

“What other theories?” asked Mr. Rowe. “I don't see 'em!”

“I wish you'd do something, Ruth,” muttered Mrs. Rowe. “We're all just sitting about.”

“Didn't it strike any one as significant, Mrs. Chater disappearing so suddenly?” demanded the authoress.

“If you mean she did it, how could she have?” exclaimed Mr. Rowe. Conscious that he had raised his voice, he dropped it and repeated, in a lower tone, “How could she have? Why, she was never out of our sight the whole blessed afternoon! And then what about that glass tube thingummy?” He turned to Bultin, who was watching Pratt play Patience. “What made you think of that hat, Bultin?”

“There's your seven,” said Bultin. “On the eight of clubs.”

“Damn smart, that was,” persisted Mr. Rowe. “How did you get on to it?”

“Don't disturb them, dear,” whispered Mrs. Rowe. “Why don't
you
get a pack, Ruth? They can't do Patience while people talk.”

“I do mine while you talk!” responded Mr. Rowe. “However, if Bultin doesn't want to talk, that's all right.”

“You've blocked your ace,” said Bultin. “I came upon Taverley practising fielding by throwing ping-pong balls into a hat. He bet he'd get all twelve in, and he did. When he took the hat up he said, ‘Hallo, what's in the lining?' It was a cigarette. Why not take the Jack? De Reszke Minor. Ivory-tipped. Kind Chater smoked. Looked like Chater's hat. ‘I wonder if he used his lining as a pocket,' said Taverley, ‘and thought this hat was his? I missed it from the rack before dinner on Friday.' There, what did I say—if you'd taken the Jack you'd have done it.”

It was the first time Bultin had told this story. He had allowed the inspector to deduce that his brainwave had sprung from inspired virgin soil.

“Well, I'm blowed!” blinked Mr. Rowe, impressed. He watched Pratt sweep up the cards and begin shuffling them for another attempt. “What are you going to do about your picture, Pratt?” he asked.

“Hope for better luck with Miss Rowe's,” answered Pratt.

“Yes, by Jove! But you'll be doing Miss Aveling again first, eh?”

Pratt shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps—if it doesn't preserve unfortunate memories. Of course, there wouldn't be a lunatic butler around this time to interfere.”

“Of course not. That chap's going, ain't he?”

“So is the attractive maid, Bessie, who caused the trouble,” smiled Pratt.

“What! Sacked, too?” Pratt shook his head and began to lay out the cards. “Oh, I get you,” said Mr. Rowe. “She's agreed to be your model?”

“I understand she has agreed to be Thomas Newson's wife,” replied Pratt. “When we menfolk get into trouble, our women are illogically adhesive. Even Mrs. Chater outraged sanity by failing to rejoice in her husband's death.”

Edyth Fermoy-Jones looked pensively understanding. She had written about such women.

Mrs. Rowe, less appreciative of Pratt's reflections, murmured, “Ruth, get a pack, as I told you.”

Bultin said, “You've only laid out six cards.”

“Would you like to do the damn thing yourself?” asked Pratt.…

In the ante-room, Nadine Leveridge suddenly broke a long silence. John could now hobble with the aid of a stick, but the ante-room had remained his headquarters, and Nadine had drifted there in obedience to a natural impulse. But she also had a definite object, and before she left the room there were certain matters she had determined to clear up. One of them she tackled now.

“What's on your mind, John?” she asked. “Tell me.”

“Oh, nothing really, I suppose,” he answered. “Anyhow, we won't talk about it.”

“But I've come especially to talk about it,” she objected. “Conscience worrying you?”

“Can anybody ever hide anything from you?”

“You can't—much! You're not satisfied that you've done your duty. Perjury's a new experience for you, and you don't like it.”

“You don't mince your words,” he murmured.

“It's never been my habit,” she replied, “and I'm not breaking my habit with you. But if you've committed perjury—to the extent of informing the inspector that you'd told him everything when you hadn't—well, you were acting on my advice, so I'm your partner in crime. It's no good shaking your head. It's true. And, that being so, shouldn't I know the degree of the crime I've partnered you in?”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means, John, what information did you withhold from the inspector, exactly?”

“Well—I never said a word about Anne.”

“Thank God!”

“But—but—if—”

“John!” she interrupted. “You've not known Anne long, but you've known her long enough to answer this question: Do you think Anne Aveling is capable of committing a cold-blooded murder?”

“Of course not.”

“Or any kind of a murder?”

“She'd have to have a damn good reason.”

“I see. And then she might?”

“And then she might,” answered John unhappily. “You see, Nadine, I'm not mincing my words now, either.”

“I'm glad you're not. And I agree with you that if Anne had a damn good reason—I mean, a reason that seemed damn good to her—she
might
commit murder. But it wouldn't be a cold-blooded murder. And she had no reason of any kind—damn good or damn bad—to murder Mr. Chater.”

“I suppose you're certain of that?”

“Sufficiently certain not to give it a second thought. You know, don't you, that everything is pointing to suicide?”

“Yes.”

“And, of course,” she continued, “if any one
not
Anne were arrested, you'd come forward with the rest of your knowledge?”

“I'd have to then.”

“Naturally you'd have to. You couldn't risk the wrong person paying the price. So why worry? Why not continue to wait as you're doing, and save the hell of a lot of unnecessary bother? We're not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but Mr. Chater was a rat, and if a rat commits suicide, as this one seems to have done—well, it can be quite convenient.”

“Yes—if he commits suicide,” answered John slowly. Then he shot an abrupt question at her. “Do you know that Anne came down
twice
last night?”

“You only told me once,” replied Nadine.

“I know. It was Anne herself who told me of the second time. She said she came to get the book she'd forgotten.”

“Well, that explained that, didn't it?”

“Did it? I didn't hear her come down the second time.”

“Is that important?”

“It means she didn't come down for the book for quite a while. Long after one would have thought she needed it. She waited. When I was asleep she came down. Then she remembered—afterwards—that I might have been awake, and in case I had been she volunteered her information, coupling it with an explanation. Yes, and I've not told you this,” he went on. “She hinted that she might get into trouble if I passed the information on.”

For the first time, Nadine looked definitely alarmed.

“Her reason was that she would be blamed for having disturbed me,” added John quickly. “Good enough, do you think?”

“I—don't know,” murmured Nadine. “I don't know any more than you do. Excepting that, whatever happens, I stand by Anne.…John, we must get this settled. The difference between you and me is that if I have an instinct I believe in I'm ready to follow it blindly, but you've got to prove yours. Yes, that hateful conscience will have to be appeased, and I know only one way. I won't be a minute!”

She left the room abruptly. She was away five minutes. When she returned, Harold Taverley was with her.

“Now, then, Harold,” she said, when they were seated, “I've explained the position to you, and here is the man. It's your move!”

Taverley nodded. He did not show any discomposure, but John had never seen him look so grave.

“Yes, it's my move,” he answered, “and I'm going to begin with a general statement. If there's been any wrong-doing in this—matter of Anne—I'm the chief culprit.”

“I can't associate you with wrong-doing of any sort,” replied John sincerely.

“Thanks. That's nice of you,” said Taverley. “Just the same, don't bank on it. One thing I never interfere with is another man's conscience. And I won't interfere with yours—”

“Oh, for God's sake, cut the philosophy!” interrupted Nadine. “This isn't a question of ethics! It's a question of—how much we love Anne!”

“I'd commit murder for her,” answered Taverley, “though I don't happen to have done so.”

“What have you done—if anything?” demanded Nadine.

“I'll tell you in a minute. But first I'd like to ask Foss a question or two. You've said nothing whatever to the police about Anne's coming down last night?”

“Nothing at all,” responded John.

“Have you kept anything else back?”

“No—I don't think so.”

“What about the morning—before the meet? Were you questioned about that?”

“No. Should I have been?”

“Well, let us pretend you are being questioned now, and that I am the inspector—and I have just asked you to tell me all you saw through that door—which I remember was open part of the time—between about a quarter-past and half-past.”

John took his mind back. He recalled the details with perfect clearness.

“At about a quarter-past ten,” he said, “Lady Aveling was talking to me in here. The door was open. I saw Anne pass through the hall and go towards the stairs.”

“Correct,” replied Taverley.

“Then Lady Aveling left me, and Mr. Rowe looked in. I was still keeping my eye on the bit of the hall I could see—you know, watching people pass by—” Nadine smiled to herself; she knew the particular person for whom John had been watching. “And while Rowe was talking to me, I saw Bessie go towards the staircase.”