When the uneasy house-party at Lexham arose from the luncheon-table that afternoon, Maud, as usual, went upstairs for her rest, and Mottisfont took possession of the library by the simple expedient of stretching himself out in the easiest armchair and disposing himself to slumber. Paula dragged Roydon away to discuss the casting of Wormwood. Mrs Dean, in whom the events of the morning had induced a reflective mood, said that she must have a talk with dear Stephen, now that things were so mercifully altered, and suggested that they should go to the morning-room for a cosy little chat. Even Valerie seemed to feel that this was a trifle blatant, for she said frankly: ‘Oh, Mummy, you are the limit!’ Stephen said, with more presence of mind than courtesy, that he was going for a walk with Mathilda, at the same time directing such a menacing look at Mathilda that she meekly acquiesced in this arbitrary plan for her entertainment, and went upstairs to put on a pair of heavy shoes and a thick coat.
They left the house by the garden-room door, and traversing the gardens struck out into the small park. The melting snow had made the ground spongy under their feet; the sky was dull; and the bare tree-branches dripped moisture; but Mathilda drew a long breath, and said: ‘It’s good to get out into the fresh air again. I find the atmosphere in the house rather too oppressive for my taste. Do you think you are definitely in the clear, Stephen?’
‘Mrs Dean does,’ he replied. ‘Do you realise that that she-wolf was going to tie me up to Valerie again?’
‘Of course, you’re such a defenceless creature, aren’t you?’ she retorted.
‘Against battering-rams, I am.’
‘What did you do it for?’ she asked.
‘Get engaged to Valerie? I never meant to.’
‘Little gentleman! A fairly raw deal for her, wasn’t it?’
‘I don’t flatter myself she’s broken-hearted.’
‘No,’ she conceded. ‘You treated her pretty rough, though. You’re not everybody’s money, you know, Stephen.’
‘By no means.’ He turned his head, and looked down at her. ‘Am I yours, Mathilda?’
She did not answer for a moment or two, but strode on beside him, her hands dug into the pockets of her coat. When she thought she could trust her voice, she said: ‘Is that a declaration?’
‘Don’t come the ingénue, Mathilda, my love! Of course it is!’
‘A bit sudden, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s belated. I ought to have made it five years ago.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know. Took you for granted, I suppose.’
‘Just a good sort,’ she remarked.
‘You are – a damned good sort. I always looked on you as a second sister.’
‘You are a fool, Stephen,’ she said crossly.
‘Yes, I knew that as soon as I saw you beside my pretty nit-wit.’
‘Came on you in a flash, no doubt.’
‘More or less. I never realised until this hellish house-party. I don’t want to have to live without you.’
‘I suppose,’ said Mathilda, staring gloomily ahead, ‘I might have known that when you did propose you’d do it in some graceless fashion peculiarly your own. What makes you think I want Valerie’s leavings?’
‘My God, you are a vulgar wench!’ Stephen exclaimed, grinning.
‘Well?’
‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t think you would want me. But I want you.’
‘Why? To save you from further entanglements with glamorous blondes?’
‘Hell, no! Because I love you.’
‘Since when?’
‘Always, I think. Consciously, since Christmas Eve. I’ve never quarrelled with you, Mathilda, have I? Do you know, I’ve never wanted to?’
‘That must be a record.’
‘It is. I won’t ever quarrel with you, my sweet. That’s a promise.’
‘It’s irresistible.’
He stopped, and swung her round to face him, holding her by the shoulders. ‘Does that mean you’ll marry me?’
She nodded, looking up at him with a faint flush in her cheeks. ‘Somebody’s clearly got to keep you in order. It may as well be me.’
He pulled her rather roughly into his arms. ‘O God, Mathilda, do keep me in order!’ he said, in a suddenly thickened voice. ‘I need you! I need you damnably!’
She found that her own voice was unsteady. ‘I know. You are such a fool, Stephen: such a dear, impossible fool!’
‘So are you, to care a damn for me,’ he said. ‘I never thought you did. I can’t think why you do.’
She took his face between her hands, looking up at him a little mistily. ‘I like savage creatures.’
‘Bull-terriers and Stephen Herriard.’
‘That’s it. What do you see in me? I’m an ill-favoured woman, my love, and you will have to confront my ugly mug across your breakfast-table all the days of your life.’
‘You have a beautiful plainness, Mathilda. Your eyes laugh, too. Did you know?’
‘No, I didn’t know. Tell me more!’
He laughed, and, pulling her hand through his arm, held it, and strolled on with her across the spongy turf. ‘I shan’t be able to offer you this for your home.’
‘It’s all right with me. But you love it. You ought to have it.’
‘Don’t think I could keep it up as things are. It will be sold, anyway, and the proceeds split between the three of us.’
‘You couldn’t buy it in?’
He shook his head. ‘Couldn’t run it on what was left if I did. I don’t mind. I’ve got you.’
They walked on. ‘If Paula and Joe didn’t want it sold – if they were willing to forgo their share of the price, you could keep it. Nat meant you to have it. I always thought that was why he bought it.’
‘It was, originally. It’s all right, Mathilda: I shan’t mind – much. The only thing I couldn’t bear would be to see Joe here.’
‘Well, you won’t: he doesn’t like the place.’
The saturnine look came back into his face. ‘You know nothing of what Joe likes or dislikes. None of us does.’
‘He’s never made any secret of the fact that historic houses don’t appeal to him.’
‘Reason enough to assume they do. I fancy Joe would like enormously to be Lord of the Manor. But he shan’t be. Not unless he chooses to buy it. I’ll stand out for a sale – and run the bidding up, too!’
‘Why do you hate Joe so bitterly, Stephen?’ she asked quietly.
He glanced down at her, a derisive expression in his hard eyes. ‘I hate Joe for his hypocrisy.’
‘Do you think he can help acting? It’s second nature, I believe.’
‘My God, Mathilda, can’t you see the truth? Are you fooled too?’ he asked incredulously.
‘I don’t like Joe,’ she confessed. ‘He means well, but he’s an ass.’
‘He is not an ass, and he doesn’t mean well. You think he likes me, don’t you? Well, I tell you that Joe hates me as much as I hate him!’
‘Stephen!’ she exclaimed.
He laughed. ‘Think I’m brutal to Joe, don’t you, Mathilda? When he tries to paw me about, and mouths his sickening platitudes, and drips affection all over me! You don’t see that Joe’s out to do me down. He nearly managed it, too.’
‘But he’s always trying to convince everyone that you couldn’t have killed Nat!’
‘Oh no, Mathilda! Oh no, my love! That’s only the façade. Think it over! Think of all that Joseph’s said in my defence, and ask yourself if it was helpful, or if it only served to make the police think that he was desperately trying to shield a man whom he knew to be guilty. Who do you think planted my cigarette-case in Uncle Nat’s room? Have you any doubt? I haven’t.’
Her fingers tightened on his. ‘Stephen, are you sure you’re not letting your dislike of Joe run away with you?’
‘I’m quite sure. Joe was my enemy from the moment he set foot in this house, and discovered that I was Uncle Nat’s blue-eyed boy. I was, you know.’
‘But you quarrelled with Nat! Always, Stephen!’
‘Sure I did, but without prejudice, until Joe came.’
She was silent for a moment, not doubting his sincerity, yet unable to believe that he was not regarding Joseph with a distorted vision. ‘He got Nat to make a will in your favour.’
‘Do you always believe what Joe tells you?’ asked Stephen. ‘He worried him into making a will. I don’t know what happened: I wasn’t there. Joe saw to that. But I can imagine Uncle Nat giving in to Joe, and then making the will out in my favour. That would have been a joke he’d have appreciated. Only Joe was clever, and he saw to it that the will should be invalid.’
‘You’ve never spoken a word of this!’
His lips curled. ‘No. Only to you, and you think I’m unhinged, don’t you? What do you suppose everyone else would think? I can tell you, if you don’t know.’
She looked up at him, dawning horror in her eyes. ‘Yes, of course I know. If you’re right, it puts a hideous complexion on so much that has happened! I haven’t stayed here often enough to be able to judge. I always ascribed the trouble that Joe has such a knack of starting to incurable tactlessness. But I see that your explanation might be correct.’
‘You can take it from me that it is. If anyone but you had provided Joe with his alibi, I would, moreover, have been ready to swear that it was he who murdered Uncle Nat.’
‘It isn’t possible, Stephen. When he wasn’t chatting to me he was humming snatches of song.’
He lifted her hand to his lips, and fleetingly kissed it. ‘All right, my sweet. Yours is the only word I would take for that.’
They had come in sight of the house again by this time, and in a few minutes they entered it, through the front door, just as Inspector Hemingway was seeing a finger-print expert and a photographer off the premises.
The Inspector was looking more bird-like than ever, and there was a satisfied gleam in his eye, for under a dusting of powder the panel above the billiard-room mantelpiece had revealed the imprints of four fingers and a thumb. He cocked an intelligent eyebrow at Stephen and Mathilda, and drew his own conclusions.
‘You are quite right, of course,’ said Stephen, correctly interpreting the look in the Inspector’s eye. ‘But we feel – at least, Miss Clare does – that an announcement at present would not be in the best of good taste. Why the camera-man?’
‘Just a bit of work I wanted done, sir. If I may say so, you don’t waste your time, do you?’
Stephen laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve wasted too much time, Inspector. How are you doing?’
‘Not so badly, sir,’ replied Hemingway. He turned to Mathilda. ‘I want to have a talk with you, miss, if you please.’
‘Very well,’ she replied, rather surprised. ‘I’ll join you in the morning-room as soon as I’ve changed my shoes.’
This did not take her long, and she presently walked into the morning-room to find not only the Inspector there, but Stephen also, looking dangerous. She said at once: ‘Take that scowl off your face, Stephen: you’re frightening the Inspector.’
‘That’s right, miss,’ said Hemingway. ‘I’m all over goose-flesh.’
‘I can see you are. No one is going to convict me of murder, Stephen, so relax! What is it, Inspector?’
‘Well, miss, in checking over the details of this case, I find that I omitted to take your evidence. That won’t do at all: in fact, it’s a wonder to me how I came to leave you out. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to tell me, please, just what you did when you went upstairs to change for dinner on Christmas Eve.’
‘She gave her evidence to Inspector Colwall,’ Stephen said.
‘Ah, but that won’t do for the Department, sir!’ said Hemingway mendaciously. ‘Very strict we are, at Scotland Yard.’
‘I’ll tell you what I did with pleasure,’ Mathilda said. ‘But I’m afraid it isn’t helpful. First I had a bath, then I dressed, and lastly I came down to the drawing-room.’
‘And I think Mr Joseph Herriard was able to corroborate that, wasn’t he, miss?’
‘Yes. We went upstairs together, and while I had my bath he continued to talk to me from his dressing-room. In fact, I don’t recall that he ever stopped talking, except now and then, when he hummed instead.’
‘Even when you had gone back into your bedroom? Did you go on talking to each other?’
‘He went on talking to me,’ corrected Mathilda.
‘Do you mean that you didn’t answer him?’
‘I said Oh! at intervals. Occasionally I said Yes, when he asked me if I was listening.’
‘Were you in the habit of talking to Mr Joseph while you were in your room, miss?’
‘I didn’t do it the night before, and I haven’t done it since, but three days isn’t really long enough for one to contract a habit, do you think?’
‘I see. And you came downstairs together on Christmas Eve?’
‘Arm in arm.’
‘Thank you, miss; that’s all I wanted to know,’ said Hemingway.
Stephen, who had been frowningly regarding him, said: ‘Just what are you driving at, Inspector?’
‘Checking up on my facts, sir, that’s all,’ Hemingway replied.
But when he saw Sergeant Ware, a few minutes later, he shook his head, and said: ‘No good. He took care to establish a cast-iron alibi all right.’
‘There you are, then!’ said the Sergeant, not altogether disappointed.
‘No, I’m not!’ Hemingway replied with some asperity. ‘On that evening, and on that evening only, Joseph made a point of holding forth to Miss Clare, while she was dressing for dinner, and if possible, I’m more than ever convinced that he’s the man I’m after.’
The Sergeant looked at him almost sadly. ‘I’ve never known you to go against the evidence before, sir.’
‘What you don’t see is that I haven’t got all the evidence. I’ve got a lot, but there’s a vital link which I’ve missed. Well, I can’t do any more until those lads ’phone through the result of developing that plate.’
‘Of course, if it does turn out to be a print of Joseph’s hand, it will be strong circumstantial evidence,’ conceded the Sergeant. ‘But not nearly strong enough, to my way of thinking, to convict him without our finding out how he could have got into Nathaniel’s room to murder him. What’s more, there’s still that handkerchief of Roydon’s.’
But Hemingway was plainly uninterested in Roydon’s handkerchief. While awaiting the telephone-call from the police-station, he was sought out by Valerie, who wanted to know whether she could go home. He assured her that he had not the least objection to her immediate departure, an announcement which greatly cheered her. She went off to persuade her mother to leave Lexham on the following morning, and found that that redoubtable lady had at last succeeded in cornering Stephen, and was manoeuvring for position. As she entered the drawing-room, she heard Mrs Dean say: ‘I know that you understood a mother’s anxiety, Stephen. I’m afraid I’m very, very jealous of my girlie’s happiness and future welfare. I could not have reconciled it with my conscience to have let the engagement continue as things were. But I’m sure you’re chivalrous enough to forgive a mother’s natural prudence.’
From the look on Stephen’s face this did not seem to be very probable. Before he could answer, Valerie said: ‘Oh, Mummy, I do wish you’d shut up! I keep on telling you I don’t want to marry Stephen! And anyway we can go home: that angelic Inspector says so.’
In whatever terms Mrs Dean might later censure her daughter’s mannerless interruption, even she was compelled to realise that after this forthright speech there could be no hope of renewing the engagement. She expressed a pious wish that they would not both discover that they had made a mistake they would regret, and left the room to overcome her chagrin in private.
Valerie said that for her part she was dead sure she wouldn’t regret it.
‘I shan’t either,’ said Stephen. ‘You’re a lovely, my pet, but you’d have driven me to suicide within a month.’
‘Well, I thought you were pretty stinking, if you want to know,’ said Valerie candidly. ‘I expect you’ll end up by marrying Mathilda.’
‘I feel that I owe it to you to tell you that you’re quite right.’
‘Good God, you haven’t gone and proposed to her already, have you?’
‘I have; but you needn’t spread it about yet.’
She stared at him ‘Gosh, so that’s why you’re suddenly looking almost human! Are you really feeling a hundred per cent, just because you’ve proposed to Mathilda Clare?’
‘No, my pretty nit-wit – because she accepted me.’
‘You are a sickening swine, Stephen!’ she said, without rancour. ‘You never looked in the least like that when you were engaged to me.’
‘I didn’t feel in the least like this. I now feel so brimful of human kindness that if it wasn’t Boxing Day I’m damned if I wouldn’t drive in to the Free Library, to see if I could find a copy of the Life of the Empress there for Aunt Maud.’
‘Well, you needn’t bother, because she’s writing to London for one,’ said Valerie.
In this she was not quite accurate. Maud had indeed set out to write such a letter, but as she unfortunately could not recall either the author or the publisher of the book, and the title pages had been consumed in the incinerator, an insuperable bar seemed to have arisen in the way of her obtaining the volume. She appealed to everyone to supply her with the necessary details, but as no one knew them, no one could come to her rescue. Joseph announced in tragic accents that the book would always conjure up such painful recollections that he hoped she would refrain from introducing it into the house again. Stephen at once astonished everyone by promising to scour London for all the books that might have been written about the Empress, and to send them down to her.
‘Now, now, old chap, I can’t have you teasing your aunt!’ said Joseph, shaking a finger at him.
‘You’re mistaken. I’m perfectly serious. You shall have innumerable lives of the Empress, aunt.’
‘It is very kind of you, Stephen, but I don’t want innumerable lives of her. I merely wish to replace the copy that was burnt. And I think that the person who wantonly destroyed it is the person who ought to replace it.’
‘I am not that person, but I am in a very sunny mood, and I will replace it,’ said Stephen.
‘Indeed, you shall do no such thing!’ Joseph said. ‘We can’t have him wasting his money like that, can we, my dear? No, I think if you very much want it I shall have to charge myself with procuring you a copy. You shall have it for your birthday! How will that be?’
‘Thank you, Joseph, but my birthday is not until April, as you are very well aware, and I want the book now,’ Maud replied. ‘I shall write to Bodmin’s, and describe what the book looked like, and I daresay they will know the one I mean.’
Joseph patted her hand. ‘But, my dear, surely it was quite an old book? I’m afraid you are likely to find that it has been out of print for some years. I can see I shall have to prowl round second-hand bookshops on your behalf. Only be patient, and you shall have it, if I can possibly manage it! I shouldn’t worry about writing to Bodmin’s, if I were you: I’m quite sure they won’t be able to supply it.’
As Maud showed a tendency to argue the point, and he was already bored by the whole subject, Stephen lounged out of the room, just in time to meet Inspector Hemingway, coming away from the telephone-room. The Inspector’s eyes were bright with triumph, a circumstance which Stephen at once noticed. Stephen said: ‘You look remarkably pleased with yourself, Inspector. Found a valuable clue?’
‘The trouble with you, sir, is that you want to know too much,’ said Hemingway severely. ‘If you’re looking for Miss Clare, she went upstairs a couple of minutes ago.’
‘Don’t get waggish with me, I implore you! My temper isn’t proof against that kind of badinage. I am not looking for Miss Clare. I am escaping from the Empress of Austria.’
The Inspector smiled. ‘What, you aren’t going to tell me she’s got lost again?’
‘No; but in her present condition she’s of no use to my aunt, and as my aunt cannot recall the name of her author, we have now reached an impasse, discussion of which will very shortly clear this house of its guests. Of course, if you were any good as a detective, you would have discovered by this time who cast the Empress to the flames.’
‘Yes, that’s what Mrs Herriard as good as told me,’ said Hemingway. ‘I’m sorry I can’t see my way to obliging her, but there it is! my time’s not my own, as you might say. Why doesn’t she ask them at the library who wrote the book? They’ll be bound to know.’
‘Inspector,’ said Stephen, ‘you are a great man! During the whole course of our exhausting discussions, not one of us thought of that simple expedient. I don’t want to hear any more tit-bits about the Empress, but I shall pass on your advice to my aunt, partly because I feel mellow, and partly because my Uncle Joseph wants to hear about the Empress even less than I do, judging by his strenuous opposition to Aunt’s getting another copy of the book.’
Hemingway’s shrewd gaze was fixed on his face. ‘You don’t pass up many chances of annoying your uncle, do you, sir?’
‘None, I hope,’ said Stephen coolly.
‘What makes you do it, sir, if I may ask?’
‘Mutual antipathy.’
‘Mutual?’ repeated Hemingway, lifting an eyebrow.
‘Did I say mutual? A slip of the tongue.’
Hemingway nodded, as though fully satisfied with this explanation. Stephen turned to go back into the drawing-room, but before he reached the door it opened, and Maud came out.
Her small mouth was folded closely, and she looked at Stephen with a stony expression in her eyes. He said: ‘I was coming to find you, Aunt. Inspector Hemingway advises you to enquire at your library for the name of the author of that book.’
Maud’s countenance relaxed a little, and the glance she cast at Hemingway was almost one of approval. ‘I must say that is a very sensible idea,’ she said. ‘But I still consider that the person who destroyed the book ought to own up. It was a very shabby trick. I should not have thought it of anyone at Lexham, even of you, Stephen.’
‘My good aunt, rid your mind of this obsession!’ he said wearily. ‘Why should I have burnt it?’
‘Joseph told me that you said –’
‘Joseph told you!’ he exclaimed, his brow growing thunderous. ‘I’ve no doubt! You will probably find that he burned the book himself for the pleasure of casting a fresh aspersion on to me!’
Maud seemed quite unresentful of this accusation. She said mildly: ‘I’m sure I don’t know why he should do that, Stephen.’
He gave a short laugh, and strode away in the direction of the billiard-room.
The Inspector watched him go, a thoughtful look in his eyes. As Maud continued her progress towards the stairs, he turned to look at her, saying: ‘Very unfortunate the way young Mr Herriard seems to have his knife into your husband, madam. And his uncle so fond of him!’
But Maud was not to be drawn into discussion. She met the Inspector’s look with a blank stare, and said in her flattest voice: ‘Yes.’
He made no further effort to detain her, but went to find his Sergeant. ‘They were Joseph’s finger-prints,’ he informed this worthy.
The Sergeant’s lips formed a soundless whistle. ‘That does look fishy, sir,’ he admitted. ‘Very fishy indeed. But unless you can break down his alibi –’
‘Forget it!’ said Hemingway. ‘What have I missed? That’s what I want to know.’
The Sergeant scratched his head, ‘I lay awake half last night, trying to spot something,’ he said. ‘But I’m blessed if I could, I don’t see what you can have missed.’
‘Of course you don’t! If you could see it, I’d have seen it for myself, long ago!’ Hemingway said irritably. ‘I’ve got a feeling the whole time that it’s right under my nose, too, which is enough to make a saint swear. The trouble is I’m getting distracted, what with all the engagements being made and broken off, and Mrs Herriard worrying me to find out who burned her ruddy Empress, and I don’t know what beside. What I need is a bit of peace and quiet. Then I might be able to think.’
The Sergeant hid a smile behind his hand. ‘Mrs Herriard been at you again, sir?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘Not to mention young Stephen. I did think he’d more sense. Anyone would think I’d nothing better to do than to look for missing property!’
‘Who was this Empress anyway?’ asked the Sergeant.
‘How should I know? Look here, if you’re going to start badgering me about her, I may as well book myself a nice room in a mental home, because I’ll need it. I got hold of you to talk over a murder, not to have a chat about a lot of foreign royalties. What would you say was a predominating factor in this case?’
The Sergeant could not resist this invitation. ‘Something that keeps on cropping up, sir? Well, I don’t quite like to say.’
‘Why the devil not?’ demanded Hemingway. ‘What is it?’
‘Well, sir – the Empress!’ said the Sergeant apologetically.
‘Now, look here, my lad,’ Hemingway began, in an awful tone, ‘if you think this is the time to be cracking silly jokes –’ He broke off suddenly, and his brows snapped together. ‘You’re right!’ he said. ‘By God, you are right!’
‘I didn’t mean it seriously, sir,’ the Sergeant said, surprised. ‘It was just a silly joke, like you said.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t quite such a silly joke,’ Hemingway said. ‘Come to think of it, there is something queer about that book. Why did anyone want to burn it?’
‘You said yourself, sir, you didn’t blame anyone for getting rid of it, the way the old lady would keep on talking about it.’
‘You want to cure yourself of this ridiculous habit you’ve got into of remembering all the things I say which it would do you more good to forget,’ said Hemingway. ‘The only member of this outfit who might have pitched the book into the incinerator because he was tired of hearing about it is young Herriard, and he didn’t do it.’
‘How do you know that, sir?’
‘He said he didn’t – that’s how I know it.’
‘Seems to me you’ve only got his word for it,’ objected the Sergeant.
‘Thanks,’ Hemingway said bitterly. ‘I may not be much good as a detective – in fact, I’m beginning to think I’m lousy – but every now and then I do know when a chap’s lying and when he’s speaking the truth. Stephen didn’t burn that book, and it’s no use trying to get me to believe that it was thrown into the incinerator by mistake, because that’s a tale I never did believe, and never shall. Someone tried to get rid of that book, for some other reason than the one Stephen would have had, if he’d done it.’ His countenance suddenly assumed a rapt expression the Sergeant knew well. He shot out a finger. ‘Now, Joseph doesn’t want the old lady to get hold of another copy, which is why his loving nephew Stephen’s out to help her to do so. My lad, I believe we’re on to something!’
‘You may be, sir, but I’m damned if I am!’ said the Sergeant. ‘I mean, what can a book about some Empress or other have to do with Nathaniel Herriard’s death? It doesn’t make sense!’
‘Look here!’ Hemingway said. ‘Who was this Empress?’
‘That’s what I asked you, sir, and you ticked me off properly for wasting your time.’
‘Elizabeth. That was the name,’ Hemingway said, quite unheeding. ‘She had a son who went and committed suicide at some hunting-lodge, with a girl he wanted to marry, and couldn’t. I know that, because Mrs Herriard told me that bit.’
‘Do you mean that that might have given the murderer some idea how to kill Nathaniel?’ asked the Sergeant.
‘That, or something else in the book. Something the old lady hadn’t got to, is my guess. Wait a bit! Didn’t some foreign royalty get murdered in Switzerland, or some place, once?’
‘When would that be?’ said the Sergeant. ‘They’re always getting themselves bumped off, these foreign royalties,’ he added disparagingly.
‘It was some time in the last century, I think. What I want is an encyclopedia.’
‘Well, there’s sure to be one in the library here, isn’t there?’ suggested the Sergeant.
‘That’s what I’m hoping,’ Hemingway said. ‘And I’ve only got to find the volume I want missing to be dead sure I’m on to something!’
There was no one in the library when they entered it a few minutes later, and the Inspector was gratified to discover a handsomely bound encyclopedia on one of the bookshelves which lined the walls of the room. The required volume was not missing, and after flicking over a great many pages devoted to the lives of all the Elizabeths in whom he had no interest, and whose claims to fame he was strongly inclined to resent, the Inspector at length came upon Elizabeth, Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary, born at Munich, December 24th, 1837; assassinated September 10th, 1898, at Geneva.
‘Assassinated!’ ejaculated the Sergeant, reading the entry over his superior’s shoulder.
‘Don’t breathe down my neck!’ said Hemingway, and carried the volume over to the window.
The Sergeant watched him flick over some more pages, run a finger down a column, and then begin to read intently. The expression on his face changed slowly from one of expectant curiosity to one of almost spellbound surprise. The Sergeant hardly knew how to contain his soul in patience, but he knew better than to intrude upon his chief’s absorption, and he waited anxiously for the reading to come to an end.
At last Hemingway looked up from the volume. He drew a long breath. ‘Do you know how this woman was killed?’ he said.
‘No, I don’t,’ said the Sergeant shortly.
‘She was stabbed,’ said Hemingway. ‘An Italian anarchist rushed up to her as she was walking along the quay at Geneva to board one of the lake steamers, and stabbed her in the chest, and made off.’
‘They do that kind of thing abroad,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Look at that King of Yugo-Slavia, for instance, at Marseilles! Bad police-work.’
‘Never mind about that! You listen to me!’ said Hemingway. ‘She was stabbed, I tell you, and the man made off. She staggered, and would have fallen, if the Countess with her hadn’t thrown an arm round her. Have you got that? She’d no idea she had been stabbed. The Countess asked her if she was ill, and it says here that she replied that she didn’t know. The Countess asked her if she would take her arm, and she refused. Now, get this, and get it good! She walked on board that steamer, and it wasn’t until she was on it, and it had begun to move, that she fainted! Then, when they started loosening her clothes, they found that there were traces of blood. She died a few minutes later.’
‘Good lord!’ the Sergeant gasped. ‘You mean that you think – you mean that it’s possible –’
‘I mean that Nathaniel Herriard wasn’t stabbed in his bedroom at all,’ said Hemingway. ‘Do you remember that the medical evidence was that death probably followed within a few minutes? Neither of the doctors ever said that death was instantaneous. It wasn’t. After he’d been stabbed, he walked into his room, and locked the door, and that door was never opened again until Ford and Stephen Herriard forced the lock.’
The Sergeant swallowed twice. ‘And Joseph gave himself an alibi!’
‘Joseph gave himself an alibi for the whole time between the locking of that door and the breaking of it open, having already committed the murder.’
‘But when did he do it?’ demanded the Sergeant. ‘Miss Clare went upstairs with him, don’t forget that! He can’t have done it with her looking on!’
‘Get her!’ said Hemingway, shutting the encyclopedia with a snap. ‘You’ll probably find her in the billiard-room with young Stephen.’
The Sergeant did find her there, and returned to the library presently escorting not only Mathilda, but Stephen too. He indicated to Hemingway, by a deprecating gesture, that he had been unable to leave Stephen behind, and cast a reproachful look upon that wholly impervious young man.
‘Look here, Inspector!’ said Stephen, with an edge to his voice, ‘when you’ve quite finished annoying Miss Clare with futile interrogations, perhaps you’ll let me know!’
‘I will,’ promised Hemingway. ‘There’s nothing for you to get hot under the collar about, sir. Since she’s bound to take you into her confidence anyway, I don’t mind you staying here, as long as you behave yourself, and don’t try to waste my time protecting her from the cruel police.’
‘Damn your impudence!’ Stephen said, grinning reluctantly.
‘You sit down, and keep quiet,’ said Hemingway. ‘Now, miss, I’m sorry to bother you again, but there’s something I want you to answer. You’ve told me what happened after you got upstairs to your room on the evening Mr Herriard was murdered: what I want you to tell me now is what happened before you went into your room. As I remember, you stated to Inspector Colwall that you went upstairs with Joseph Herriard?’
‘Yes, I did,’ she answered. ‘That is to say, he caught me up on the stairs.’
‘Caught you up?’
‘Yes, he went first to put a step-ladder in the billiard-room, out of harm’s way.’
The Inspector’s eyes were very bright. ‘Did he, miss? Was Mr Nathaniel Herriard anywhere about at that moment?’
‘He had just gone up to his room.’
‘Did you see him go?’
‘Yes, certainly I did,’ she said, a little puzzled.
‘Where were you, miss?’
‘In the hall. Actually, standing in the doorway of this very room. I was enjoying a quiet cigarette in here after the somewhat strenuous time we’d been through over Mr Roydon’s play. The rest of the party had gone up to change, I think. Then I heard Nathaniel and Joseph Herriard come out of the drawing-room together.’
‘Go on, if you please, miss. What were they doing?’
‘Quarrelling. Well, no, that’s not quite fair. Mr Herriard was still very angry about the play, and – and one thing and another, and Mr Joseph Herriard was doing his best to smooth him down.’
‘Did he succeed?’
‘No, far from it. I heard Mr Herriard tell him not to come upstairs with him, because he didn’t want him. Then he fell over the step-ladder.’ A tiny chuckle escaped her. She said remorsefully: ‘I’m sorry: I ought not to laugh, but it really was funny.’
‘Where was this step-ladder?’ asked Hemingway.
‘On the first half-landing. Joseph had left it there, and – well, it was just the last straw, as far as Nathaniel was concerned, because he didn’t like having paper-streamers hung up all over the house, and the wretched steps tripped him up. I don’t quite know how: Joseph said he knocked them over on purpose, and I must admit it would have been quite like Nathaniel to have done so.’
‘Did you actually see this happen, miss?’
‘No; I heard the crash of the steps, and I came out into the hall to see what was going on.’
‘Well, miss? What was going on?’
She regarded him with a crease between her brows. ‘I don’t quite understand, Mr Joseph Herriard was helping his brother up from his knees, and trying to apologise for having left the steps in such a stupid place.’
‘And Mr Herriard?’
‘Well, he was very angry.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Yes; he told Joseph to take the decorations down, and said he was a clumsy jackass.’
‘Did he appear to you to have been hurt by the fall?’
‘I don’t know. To tell you the truth, he had a way of pretending that he was practically crippled with lumbago whenever anything happened to annoy him, and he certainly did clap his hand to the small of his back, and –’ Her voice faltered all at once, and she gave a little gasp, and clutched at a chair-back. ‘Inspector, what are you asking me all these questions for? You surely don’t mean – But such a thing isn’t possible!’
Stephen, whose eyes had been fixed on her face throughout, said harshly: ‘Never mind that! Go on, Mathilda! What happened next?’
She said in a shaken tone: ‘He went upstairs. Rather slowly. He held on to the banister-rail all the way. I thought he was putting over one of his crippled acts. I heard him slam his door when he got upstairs, and I – I laughed. You see, I thought –’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Stephen interrupted. ‘What did Joe do? Did he know you were watching?’
She turned her head. ‘No. Not till I laughed.’
‘And then? What did he say?’
‘I don’t remember. Nothing in particular, I think. He gave a little start, but that was quite natural. Oh yes, and he did say that Nat had knocked the steps over on purpose! Then he carried the steps away to the billiard-room. I collected my handbag from this room, and put out my cigarette, and went up to change. Joseph overtook me at the top of the stairs. But – but it isn’t possible! It couldn’t have happened then!’
Stephen said: ‘Is it possible, Inspector? Was he stabbed then?’
‘You’ve got no right to ask me that, sir, and you know it. What’s more, I’ll have to warn you both –’
‘– to keep our mouths shut! You needn’t trouble!’
‘But the knife!’ Mathilda said. ‘I never saw it! What could he have done with that?’
‘Easy enough to have concealed it from you!’ Stephen said. ‘Up his sleeve, or even flat against the inside of his arm, with the hilt held downwards in the palm of his hand. You’d never see it!’ He turned to the Inspector. ‘Would it have been possible for my uncle to have walked upstairs after having been stabbed?’
‘A doctor could answer that better than I can, sir.’
‘Nevertheless, that is what you suspect. What put you on to it?’
‘When I’ve proved it to my satisfaction, sir, maybe I’ll tell you. Until then, I’m asking you and Miss Clare to behave as though we hadn’t had this highly illuminating interview.’
‘You needn’t worry!’ Stephen said, his eyes glittering. ‘Not for worlds would I do anything to impede the course of justice! Not – for – worlds!’
‘I think,’ said Mathilda, rather shakily, ‘that I’ll retire to my room with a headache. I don’t feel like meeting Joseph, and I certainly couldn’t act a part. I feel slightly sick.’
‘That’s right, miss, you go upstairs,’ said Hemingway. ‘It’s the best thing you could do.’
She moved to the door. Stephen opened it for her, and as she stepped into the hall, she gave an uncontrollable start, for Joseph was there.
‘Ah, there you are, Tilda!’ Joseph said. ‘I was just coming to look for you! Tea-time, my dear! Hallo, Stephen, old boy! Now, what mischief have you two been hatching, I should like to know?’
‘Mathilda’s got a bit of a head; she’s going to lie down,’ Stephen said, closing the door behind him. ‘Did you say tea was ready?’
‘Oh, poor Tilda!’ Joseph exclaimed, concerned. ‘Can I get you anything for it, my dear? Would you like an aspirin? I’m sure Maud has some.’
‘I shall be all right if I lie down,’ Mathilda replied. ‘It’s nothing much: I often get these heads.’
‘Come on, Joe, leave her alone!’ said Stephen, opening the door into the drawing-room. ‘Tea!’
‘With you in one moment, old man!’ Joseph said. ‘I’m just going to wash my hands.’
Mathilda had gone upstairs. Stephen heard her cross the hall above, and go into her room. He watched Joseph follow trippingly in her wake, smiled grimly, and went into the drawing-room.
The Inspector, emerging from the library, found the coast clear, and went at once to the first half-landing. Dropping on his knees there, he closely scrutinised the stair-carpet. It was a thick, grey pile, and here and there a few small stains were visible on it. The Inspector discovered two brown spots on the half-landing, and, having looked at them through his magnifying-glass, produced a safety-razor blade from a small case in his pocket, and carefully cut these away from the carpet. He placed the severed tufts of pile in a container, and rose from his knees. ‘I’m going back to the station,’ he said briefly. ‘You stay here and keep your eye on our clever customer. It’s just on the cards he may have been listening outside the library door. Tail him!’
The Sergeant, who had been thinking deeply, said: ‘Chief, if it’s true – why did he stab him in the back? That wasn’t how that chap killed the Empress, according to what you read out!’
‘Because, for one thing, any sharp pain in the back Nathaniel would think was his lumbago. For another, I’d say kind Uncle Joseph put in a bit of anatomical research, and chose the best place for his purpose.’
‘But what a risk!’ said the Sergeant. ‘Suppose it hadn’t come off? Suppose the old man had dropped down there?’
‘He wasn’t likely to do that. If he’d turned faint at once, no doubt Joseph would have helped him up to his room, and left him there. Don’t forget he thought he’d got rid of the rest of the house-party! He had to take a risk. Keep your eye on him!’
He left the house, and a minute later the Sergeant heard the police-car outside start up and drive away.
It was nearly three hours later when Inspector Hemingway again entered Lexham Manor. He was admitted by Sturry, who said, in a portentous voice, that he was glad to see him.
‘Well, that’s something new,’ said Hemingway. ‘Quite brightens up my day. Ask Mr Stephen if he can spare me a moment, will you?’
‘I will inform Mr Stephen that you are here, Inspector,’ said Sturry. ‘In the meantime, a very Peculiar Thing has occurred, of which I feel you should be instantly apprised.’
‘You can’t apprise me of anything I don’t already know, so don’t try!’ said Hemingway briskly. ‘Get hold of Mr Stephen for me!’
Swelling with affronted majesty, Sturry walked away.
In a very few minutes Stephen came into the hall. ‘Thank the lord you’re back!’ he said. ‘Joseph’s disappeared. We’ve no idea where he is. Hasn’t been seen since he went up to wash his hands before tea.’
‘Well, you don’t need to worry about him, sir, because I know where he is, which is all that matters.’
‘Where?’ Stephen demanded.
‘Locked up,’ replied Hemingway. ‘That’s what I came to tell you.’
‘Good God!’ said Stephen. ‘I hand it to you, Inspector: I thought you had let him slip through your fingers. He must have heard what we were saying in the library, and made a bolt for it. Where did you pick him up?’
‘Oh, I didn’t pick him up!’ Hemingway answered. ‘Sergeant Ware arrested him at Frickley Junction nearly a couple of hours ago. Somehow I thought he might have been doing a bit of eavesdropping, so I left Ware to keep an eye on him. And a very instructive time he had, doing it. Your Uncle Joseph, sir, left the house by the garden-door, all unobtrusive-like, and carrying a suitcase, not twenty minutes after I’d gone myself. I won’t bother you with all the details, but I’ll tell you this: when he came out of one of the potting-sheds, which was where he made for first, poor Ware thought he was seeing things, or else it was a lot darker than what he’d thought it was. Talk of talented performances! Why, by the time your Uncle Joseph had dolled himself up in a nice brown wig, and moustache, and had darkened his eyebrows, Ware tells me you wouldn’t have believed it could be the same man.’
‘Old theatrical props!’ said Stephen.
‘I wouldn’t wonder. Luckily, Ware’s sure, even if he isn’t quick, and as soon as he found that there weren’t any snakes or pink rats about, he kept right on after your uncle. The first chance he had to telephone through to me was at Frickley Junction, where they’d got to by a slow train. Not properly heated either, judging by Ware’s remarks. By that time, I’d had a highly instructive chat with the police-surgeon, not to mention another highly instructive chat with a pathologist, who’d been putting some scraps of that stair-carpet of yours through a few tests. And what that chap had to say about being dragged out on Boxing Day is nobody’s business!’
‘Blood?’ Stephen asked.
‘That’s right, sir. Same group as Mr Herriard’s, found by me where the blow was struck. Probably a couple of drops from the knife, since Mr Herriard hardly bled at all externally. That being that, and various items adding up to the required total, I told Ware to arrest your Uncle Joseph on a charge of murdering his brother, and to bring him along, instead of catching another slow train up to London, which was what he’d been afraid he’d have to do. And now, if you don’t mind, sir, I’ve got to see Mrs Herriard, and break the news to her.’
‘Just a minute!’ said Stephen. ‘How the devil did you get on to it?’
‘You read the Life of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria instead of grumbling at other people for doing so, and maybe you’ll find out,’ said Hemingway. ‘Your Uncle Joseph read it – all of it, which is more than he allowed his wife to do. Where is she, sir?’
‘In the drawing-room. Miss Clare’s with her. Was the Empress murdered, then?’
‘I’m not going to spoil the story for you,’ said the Inspector firmly. ‘Besides, I haven’t time. You’ll find it all in the encyclopedia.’
‘Damn you!’ Stephen said, and took him to the drawing-room.
When she saw the Inspector, Maud looked steadily at him, her hands folded in her lap, her face quite expressionless. Mathilda moved instinctively to her side, but when the Inspector told her briefly, but as gently as he could, that her husband was under arrest, she showed no sign of agitation. For a moment she did not speak. Then she said: ‘I did not see how Joseph could have done it.’
Taken aback, Mathilda exclaimed: ‘You thought he might have?’
‘Oh yes!’ Maud replied matter-of-factly. ‘You see, I have lived with Joseph for nearly thirty years. You none of you understood him.’
Mathilda looked at her in blank astonishment. ‘Didn’t you – didn’t you like him?’ she asked.
‘I liked him when I married him, naturally,’ Maud answered. ‘I have disliked him very much for many years now, however.’
‘Yet you went on living with him!’
Maud rose, rearranging the scarf she wore round her shoulders. A small, tight smile just widened her little mouth. ‘I was brought up to believe that one married for better or for worse,’ she said. ‘I daresay you thought that because I used to be an actress I didn’t care about such things. But I have always believed in doing one’s duty. Joseph was not unfaithful to me, you see.’ She walked across the room to the door. ‘I shall not come down to dinner,’ she stated. ‘It would make you all feel uncomfortable, if I did. Is there anything more you wish to say to me, Inspector?’
‘No, madam, nothing more,’ Hemingway said, as astonished as Mathilda.
‘Would you like me to come up with you?’ asked Mathilda.
‘No, thank you, dear. Just tell them to send dinner to my room, please, and don’t worry about me. I shall be quite happy, making plans for the little house I’ve always wanted to live in.’ She paused, and glanced up at Stephen, who was holding the door open for her. She smiled again. ‘By myself!’ she said simply, and walked out of the room.
