Chapter 15

‘Your room’s ready,’ said Sophia.

She stood by my side looking out at the garden. It looked bleak and grey now with the half-denuded trees swaying in the wind.

Sophia echoed my thoughts as she said:

‘How desolate it looks…’

As we watched, a figure, and then presently another came through the yew hedge from the rock garden. They both looked grey and unsubstantial in the fading light.

Brenda Leonides was the first. She was wrapped in a grey chinchilla coat and there was something catlike and stealthy in the way she moved. She slipped through the twilight with a kind of eerie grace.

I saw her face as she passed the window. There was a half-smile on it, the curving, crooked smile I had noticed upstairs. A few minutes later Laurence Brown, looking slender and shrunken, also slipped through the twilight. I can only put it that way. They did not seem like two people walking, two people who had been out for a stroll. There was something furtive and unsubstantial about them like two ghosts.

I wondered if it was under Brenda’s or Laurence’s foot a twig had snapped.

By a natural association of ideas, I asked:

‘Where’s Josephine?’

‘Probably with Eustace up in the schoolroom.’ She frowned. ‘Em worried about Eustace, Charles.’

‘Why?’

‘Lie’s so moody and odd. He’s been so different ever since that wretched paralysis. I can’t make out what’s going on in his mind. Sometimes he seems to hate us all.’

‘He’ll probably grow out of all that. It’s just a phase.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. But I do get worried, Charles.’

‘Why, dear heart?’

‘Really, I suppose, because mother and father never worry. They’re not like a mother and father.’

‘That may be all for the best. More children suffer from interference than from non-interference.’

‘That’s true. You know, I never thought about it until I came back from abroad, but they really are a queer couple. Father living determinedly in a world of obscure historical by-paths and mother having a lovely time creating scenes. That tomfoolery this evening was all mother. There was no need for it. She just wanted to play a family conclave scene. She gets bored, you know, down here and has to try and work up a drama.’

For the moment I had a fantastic vision of Sophia’s mother poisoning her elderly father-in-law in a light-hearted manner in order to observe a murder drama at first-hand with herself in the leading role.

An amusing thought! I dismissed it as such—but it left me a little uneasy.

‘Mother,’ said Sophia, ‘has to be looked after the whole time. You never know what she’s up to!’

‘Forget your family, Sophia,’ I said firmly.

‘I shall be only too delighted to, but it’s a little difficult at the present moment. But I was happy out in Cairo when I had forgotten them all.’

I remembered how Sophia had never mentioned her home or her people.

‘Is that why you never talked about them?’ I asked. ‘Because you wanted to forget them?’

‘I think so. We’ve always, all of us, lived too much in each other’s pockets. We’re—we’re all too fond of each other. We’re not like some families where they all hate each other like poison. That must be pretty bad, but it’s almost worse to live all tangled up in conflicting affections.’

She added:

‘I think that’s what I mean when I said we all lived together in a little crooked house. I didn’t mean that it was crooked in the dishonest sense. I think what I meant was that we hadn’t been able to grow up independent, standing by ourselves, upright. We’re all a bit twisted and twining.’

I saw Edith de Haviland’s heel grinding a weed into the path as Sophia added:

‘Like bindweed…’

And then suddenly Magda was with us—flinging open the door—crying out:

‘Darlings, why don’t you have the lights on? It’s almost dark.’

And she pressed the switches and the lights sprang up on the walls and on the tables, and she and Sophia and I pulled the heavy rose curtains, and there we were in the flower-scented interior, and Magda flinging herself on the sofa, cried:

‘What an incredible scene it was, wasn’t it? How cross Eustace was! He told me he thought it was all positively indecent. How funny boys are!’

She sighed.

‘Roger’s rather a pet. I love him when he rumples his hair and starts knocking things over. Wasn’t it sweet of Edith to offer her legacy to him? She really meant it, you know, it wasn’t just a gesture. But it was terribly stupid—it might have made Philip think he ought to do it too! Of course Edith would do anything for the family! There’s something very pathetic in the love of a spinster for her sister’s children. Some day I shall play one of those devoted spinster aunts. Inquisitive and obstinate and devoted.’

‘It must have been hard for her after her sister died,’ I said, refusing to be side-tracked into discussion of another of Magda’s roles. ‘I mean if she disliked old Leonides so much.’

Magda interrupted me.

‘Disliked him? Who told you that? Nonsense. She was in love with him.’

‘Mother!’ said Sophia.

‘Now don’t try and contradict me, Sophia. Naturally at your age, you think love is all two good-looking young people in the moonlight.’

‘She told me,’ I said, ‘that she had always disliked him.’

‘Probably she did when she first came. She’d been angry with her sister for marrying him. I dare say there was always some antagonism—but she was in love with him all right! Darling, I do know what I’m talking about! Of course, with deceased wife’s sister and all that, he couldn’t have married her, and I dare say he never thought of it— and quite probably she didn’t either. She was quite happy mothering the children, and having fights with him. But she didn’t like it when he married Brenda. She didn’t like it a bit!

‘No more did you and father,’ said Sophia.

‘No, of course we hated it! Naturally! But Edith hated it most. Darling, the way I’ve seen her look at Brenda!’

‘Now, Mother,’ said Sophia.

Magda threw her an affectionate and half-guilty glance, the glance of a mischieveous, spoilt child.

She went on, with no apparent realization of any lack of continuity:

‘I’ve decided Josephine really must go to school.’

‘Josephine? To school?’

‘Yes. To Switzerland. I’m going to see about it tomorrow. I really think we might get her off at once. It’s so bad for her to be mixed up in a horrid business like this. She’s getting quite morbid about it. What she needs is other children of her own age. School life. I’ve always thought so.’

‘Grandfather didn’t want her to go to school,’ said Sophia slowly. ‘He was very much against it.’

‘Darling old Sweetie Pie liked us all here under his eye. Very old people are often selfish in that way. A child ought to be amongst other children. And Switzerland is so healthy—all the winter sports, and the air, and so much, much better food than we get here!’

‘It will be difficult to arrange for Switzerland now with all the currency regulations, won’t it?’ I asked.

‘Nonsense, Charles. There’s some kind of educational racket—or you exchange with a Swiss child—there are all sorts of ways. Rudolf Alstir’s in Lausanne. I shall wire him tomorrow to arrange everything. We can get her off by the end of the week!’

Magda punched a cushion, smiled at us, went to the door, stood a moment looking back at us in a quite enchanting fashion.

‘It’s only the young who count,’ she said. As she said it, it was a lovely line. ‘They must always come first. And, darlings—think of the flowers—the blue gentians, the narcissus…’

‘In October?’ asked Sophia, but Magda had gone.

Sophia heaved an exasperated sigh.

‘Really,’ she said. ‘Mother is too trying! She gets these sudden ideas, and she sends thousands of telegrams and everything has to be arranged at a moment’s notice. Why should Josephine be hustled off to Switzerland all in a flurry?’

‘There’s probably something in the idea of school. I think children of her own age would be a good thing for Josephine.’

‘Grandfather didn’t think so,’ said Sophia obstinately.

I felt slightly irritated.

‘My dear Sophia, do you really think an old gentleman of over eighty is the best judge of a child’s welfare?’

‘He was about the best judge of anybody in this house,’ said Sophia.

‘Better than your Aunt Edith?’

‘No, perhaps not. She did rather favour school. I admit Josephine’s got into rather difficult ways—she’s got a horrible habit of snooping. But I really think it’s just because she’s playing detectives.’

Was it only the concern for Josephine’s welfare which had occasioned Magda’s sudden decision? I wondered. Josephine was remarkably well-informed about all sorts of things that had happened prior to the murder and which had been certainly no business of hers. A healthy school life with plenty of games would probably do her a world of good. But I did rather wonder at the suddenness and urgency of Magda’s decision—Switzerland was a long way off.

Chapter 16

The Old Man had said:

‘Let them talk to you.’

As I shaved the following morning, I considered just how far that had taken me.

Edith de Haviland had talked to me—she had sought me out for that especial purpose. Clemency had talked to me (or had I talked to her?). Magda had talked to me in a sense—that is, I had formed part of the audience to one of her broadcasts. Sophia naturally had talked to me. Even Nannie had talked to me. Was I any the wiser for what I had learned from them all? Was there any significant word or phrase? More, was there any evidence of that abnormal vanity on which my father had laid stress? I couldn’t see that there was.

The only person who had shown absolutely no desire to talk to me in any way, or on any subject, was Philip. Was not that, in a way, rather abnormal? He must know by now that I wanted to marry his daughter. Yet he continued to act as though I was not in the house at all. Presumably he resented my presence there. Edith de Haviland had apologized for him. She had said it was just ‘manner’. She had shown herself concerned about Philip. Why?

I considered Sophia’s father. He was in every sense a repressed individual. He had been an unhappy jealous child. He had been forced back into himself. He had taken refuge in the world of books—in the historical past. That studied coldness and reserve of his might conceal a good deal of passionate feeling. The inadequate motive of financial gain by his father’s death was unconvincing—I did not think for a moment that Philip Leonides would kill his father because he himself had not quite as much money as he would like to have. But there might be some deep psychological reason for his desiring his father’s death. Philip had come back to his father’s house to live, and later, as a result of the Blitz, Roger had come—and Philip had been obliged to see day by day that Roger was his father’s favourite… Might things have come to such a pass in his tortured mind that the only relief possible was his father’s death? And supposing that death should incriminate his elder brother? Roger was short of money— on the verge of a crash. Knowing nothing of that last interview between Roger and his father and the latter’s offer of assistance, might not Philip have believed that the motive would seem so powerful that Roger would be at once suspected? Was Philip’s mental balance sufficiently disturbed to lead him to do murder?

I cut my chin with the razor and swore.

What the hell was I trying to do? Fasten murder on Sophia’s father? That was a nice thing to try and do! That wasn’t what Sophia had wanted me to come down here for.

Or—was it? There was something, had been something all along, behind Sophia’s appeal. If there was any lingering suspicion in her mind that her father was the killer, then she would never consent to marry me—in case that suspicion might be true. And since she was Sophia, clear-eyed and brave, she wanted the truth, since uncertainty would be an eternal and perpetual barrier between us. Hadn’t she been in effect saying to me, ‘Prove that this dreadful thing I am imagining is not true—but if it is true, then prove its truth to me—so that I can know the worst and face it!’

Did Edith de Haviland know, or suspect, that Philip was guilty? What had she meant by ‘this side idolatry’?

And what had Clemency meant by that peculiar look she had thrown at me when I had asked her who she suspected and she had answered: ‘Laurence and Brenda are the obvious suspects, aren’t they?’

The whole family wanted it to be Brenda and Laurence, hoped it might be Brenda and Laurence, but didn’t really believe it was Brenda and Laurence…

And of course, the whole family might be wrong, and it might really be Laurence and Brenda after all.

Or, it might be Laurence, and not Brenda…

That would be a much better solution.

I finished dabbing my cut chin and went down to breakfast filled with the determination to have an interview with Laurence Brown as soon as possible.

It was only as I drank my second cup of coffee that it occurred to me that the Crooked House was having it’s the first day aeffect on me also. I, too, wanted to find, not the true solution, but the solution that suited me best.

After breakfast I went through the hall and up the stairs. Sophia had told me that I should find Laurence giving instruction to Eustace and Josephine in the schoolroom.

I hesitated on the landing outside Brenda’s front door. Did I ring and knock, or did I walk right in? I decided to treat the house as an integral Leonides home and not as Brenda’s private residence.

I opened the door and passed inside. Everything was quiet, there seemed no one about. On my left the door into the big drawing-room was closed. On my right two open doors showed a bedroom and adjoining bathroom. This I knew was the bathroom adjoining Aristide Leonides’ bedroom where the eserine and the insulin had been kept.

The police had finished with it now. I pushed the door open and slipped inside. I realized then how easy it would have been for anyone in the house (or from outside the house for the matter of that!) to come up here and into the bathroom unseen.

I stood in the bathroom looking round. It was sumptuously appointed with gleaming tiles and a sunken bath. At one side were various electric appliances; a hot plate and grill under, an electric kettle—a small electric saucepan, a toaster—everything that a valet attendant to an old gentleman might need. On the wall was a white enamelled cupboard. I opened it. Inside were medical appliances, two medicine glasses, eyebath, eye dropper, and a few labelled bottles. Aspirin, boracic powder, iodine. Elastoplast bandages, etc. On a separate shelf were the stacked supply of insulin, two hypodermic needles, and a bottle of surgical spirit. On a third shelf was a bottle marked ‘The Tablets– one or two to be taken at night as ordered.’ On this shelf, no doubt, had stood the bottle of eyedrops. It was all clear, well arranged, easy for anyone to get at if needed, and equally easy to get at for murder.

I could do what I liked with the bottles and then go softly out and downstairs again and nobody would ever know I had been there. All this was, of course, nothing new, but it brought home to me how difficult the task of the police was.

Only from the guilty party or parties could one find out what one needed.

‘Rattle ’em,’ Taverner had said to me. ‘Get ’em on the run. Make ’em think we’re on to something. Keep ourselves well in the limelight. Sooner or later, if we do, our criminal will stop leaving well alone and try to be smarter still—and then—we’ve got him.’

Well, the criminal hadn’t reacted to this treatment so far.

I came out of the bathroom. Still no one about. I went on along the corridor. I passed the dining-room on the left, and Brenda’s bedroom and bathroom on the right. In the latter, one of the maids was moving about. The dining-room door was closed. From a room beyond that, I heard Edith de Haviland’s voice telephoning to the inevitable fishmonger. A spiral flight of stairs led to the floor above. I went up them. Edith’s bedroom and sitting-room were here, I knew, and two more bathrooms and Laurence Brown’s room. Beyond that again the short flight of steps down to the big room built out over the servants’ quarters at the back which was used as a schoolroom.

Outside the door I paused. Laurence Brown’s voice could be heard, slightly raised, from inside.

I think Josephine’s habit of snooping must have been catching. Quite unashamedly I leaned against the door jamb and listened.

It was a history lesson that was in progress, and the period in question was the French Directoire.

As I listened astonishment opened my eyes. It was a considerable surprise to me to discover that Laurence Brown was a magnificent teacher.

I don’t know why it should have surprised me so much. After all, Aristide Leonides had always been a good picker of men. For all his mouselike exterior, Laurence had that supreme gift of being able to rouse enthusiasm and imagination in his pupils. The drama of Thermidor, the decree of outlawry against the Robespierrists, the magnificence of Barras, the cunning of Fouche—Napoleon the half-starved young gunner lieutenant—all these were real and living.

Suddenly Laurence stopped, he asked Eustace and Josephine a question, he made them put themselves in the place of first one and then another figure in the drama. Though he didn’t get much result from Josephine, whose voice sounded as though she had a cold in the head, Eustace sounded quite different from his usual moody self. He showed brains and intelligence and the keen historical sense which he had doubtless inherited from his father.

Then I heard the chairs being pushed back and scraped across the floor. I retreated up the steps and was apparently just coming down them when the door opened.

Eustace and Josephine came out.

‘Hallo,’ I said.

Eustace looked surprised to see me.

‘Do you want anything?’ he asked politely.

Josephine, taking no interest in my presence, slipped past me.

‘I just wanted to see the schoolroom,’ I said rather feebly.

‘You saw it the other day, didn’t you? It’s just a kid’s place really. Used to be the nursery. It’s still got a lot of toys in it.’

He held open the door for me and I went in.

Laurence Brown stood by the table. He looked up, flushed, murmured something in answer to my good morning and went hurriedly out.

‘You’ve scared him,’ said Eustace. ‘He’s very easily scared.’

‘Do you like him, Eustace?’

‘Oh! he’s all right. An awful ass, of course.’

‘But not a bad teacher?’

‘No, as a matter of fact he’s quite interesting. He knows an awful lot. He makes you see things from a different angle. I never knew that Henry the Eighth wrote poetry— to Anne Boleyn, of course—jolly decent poetry.’

We talked for a few moments on such subjects as The Ancient Mariner, Chaucer, the political implications behind the Crusades, the medieval approach to life, and the, to Eustace, surprising fact that Oliver Cromwell had prohibited the celebration of Christmas Day. Behind Eustace’s scornful and rather ill-tempered manner there was, I perceived, an inquiring and able mind.

Very soon, I began to realize the source of his ill humour. His illness had not only been a frightening ordeal, it had also been a frustration and a setback, just at a moment when he had been enjoying life.

‘I was to have been in the eleven next term—and I’d got my house colours. It’s pretty thick to have to stop at home and do lessons with a rotten kid like Josephine. Why, she’s only twelve.’

‘Yes, but you don’t have the same studies, do you?’

‘No, of course she doesn’t do advanced maths—or Latin. But you don’t want to have to share a tutor with a girl.’

I tried to soothe his injured male pride by remarking that Josephine was quite an intelligent girl for her age.

‘D’you think so? I think she’s awfully wet. She’s mad keen on this detecting stuff—goes round poking her nose in everywhere and writing things down in a little black book and pretending that she’s finding out a lot. Just a silly kid, that’s all she is,’ said Eustace loftily.

‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘girls can’t be detectives. I told her so. I think mother’s quite right and the sooner Jo’s packed off to Switzerland the better.’

‘Wouldn’t you miss her?’

‘Miss a kid of that age?’ said Eustace haughtily. ‘Of course not. My goodness, this house is the absolute limit! Mother always haring up and down to London and bullying tame dramatists to rewrite plays for her, and making frightful fusses about nothing at all. And father shut up with his books and sometimes not hearing you if you speak to him. I don’t see why I should have to be burdened with such peculiar parents. Then there’s Uncle Roger—always so hearty that it makes you shudder. Aunt Clemency’s all right, she doesn’t bother you, but I sometimes think she’s a bit batty. Aunt Edith’s not too bad, but she’s old. Things have been a bit more cheerful since Sophia came back— though she can be pretty sharp sometimes. But it is a queer household, don’t you think so? Having a step-grandmother young enough to be your aunt or your older sister. I mean, it makes you feel an awful ass!’

I had some comprehension of his feelings. I remembered (very dimly) my own supersensitiveness at Eustace’s age. My horror of appearing in any way unusual or of my near relatives departing from the normal.

‘What about your grandfather?’ I said. ‘Were you fond of him?’

A curious expression flitted across Eustace’s face. ‘Grandfather,’ he said, ‘was definitely anti-social!’

‘In what way?’

‘He thought of nothing but the profit motive. Laurence says that’s completely wrong. And he was a great individualist. All that sort of thing has got to go, don’t you think so?’

‘Well,’ I said, rather brutally, ‘he has gone.’

‘A good thing, really,’ said Eustace. ‘I don’t want to be callous, but you can’t really enjoy life at that age!’

‘Didn’t he?’

‘He couldn’t have. Anyway, it was time he went. He—’

Eustace broke off as Laurence Brown came back into the schoolroom.

Laurence began fussing about with some books, but I thought that he was watching me out of the corner of his eye.

He looked at his wrist-watch and said:

‘Please be back here sharp at eleven, Eustace. We’ve wasted too much time the last few days.’

‘OK, sir.’

Eustace lounged towards the door and went out whistling.

Laurence Brown darted another sharp glance at me. He moistened his lips once or twice. I was convinced that he had come back into the schoolroom solely in order to talk to me.

Presently, after a little aimless stacking and unstacking of books and a pretence of looking for a book that was missing, he spoke:

‘Er—How are they getting on?’ he said.

‘They?’

‘The police.’

His nose twitched. A mouse in a trap, I thought, a mouse in a trap.

‘They don’t take me into their confidence,’ I said.

‘Oh. I thought your father was the Assistant Commissioner.’

‘He is,’ I said. ‘But naturally he would not betray official secrets.’

I made my voice purposely pompous.

‘Then you don’t know how—what—if—’ His voice trailed off. ‘They’re not going to make an arrest, are they?’

‘Not so far as I know. But then, as I say, I mightn’t know.’

Get ’em on the run, Inspector Taverner had said. Get ’em rattled. Well, Laurence Brown was rattled all right.

He began talking quickly and nervously.

‘You don’t know what it’s like… The strain… Not knowing what—I mean, they just come and go—Asking questions… Questions that don’t seem to have anything to do with the case…’

He broke off. I waited. He wanted to talk—well, then, let him talk.

‘You were there when the Chief Inspector made that monstrous suggestion the other day? About Mrs Leonides and myself… It was monstrous. It makes one feel so helpless. One is powerless to prevent people thinking things! And it is all so wickedly untrue. Just because she is—was—so many years younger than her husband. People have dreadful minds—dreadful minds. I feel—I can’t help feeling, that it is all a plot.’

‘A plot? That’s interesting.’

It was interesting, though not quite in the way he took it.

‘The family, you know; Mr Leonides’ family, have never been sympathetic to me. They were always aloof. I always felt that they despised me.’

His hands had begun to shake.

‘Just because they have always been rich and—powerful. They looked down on me. What was I to them? Only the tutor. Only a wretched conscientious objector. And my objections were conscientious. They were indeed!’

I said nothing.

‘All right then,’ he burst out. ‘What if I was—afraid? Afraid I’d make a mess of it. Afraid that when I had to pull a trigger—I mightn’t be able to bring myself to do it. How can you be sure it’s a NazI you’re going to kill? It might be some decent lad—some village boy—with no political leanings, just called up for his country’s service. I believe war is wrong, do you understand? I believe it is wrong!

I was still silent. I believed that my silence was achieving more than any arguments or agreements could do. Laurence Brown was arguing with himself, and in so doing was revealing a good deal of himself.

‘Everyone’s always laughed at me.’ His voice shook. ‘I seem to have a knack of making myself ridiculous. It isn’t that I really lack courage—but I always do the thing wrong. I went into a burning house to rescue a woman they said was trapped there. But I lost the way at once, and the smoke made me unconscious, and it gave a lot of trouble to the firemen finding me. I heard them say, “Why couldn’t the silly chump leave it to us?” It’s no good my trying, everyone’s against me. Whoever killed Mr Leonides arranged it so that I would be suspected. Someone killed him so as to ruin me!

‘What about Mrs Leonides?’ I asked.

He flushed. He became less of a mouse and more like a man.

‘Mrs Leonides is an angel,’ he said, ‘an angel. Her sweetness, her kindness to her elderly husband were wonderful. To think of her in connection with poison is laughable—laughable! And that thick-headed Inspector can’t see it!’

‘He’s prejudiced,’ I said, ‘by the number of cases on his files where elderly husbands have been poisoned by sweet young wives.’

‘The insufferable dolt,’ said Laurence Brown angrily.

He went over to a bookcase in the corner and began rummaging the books in it. I didn’t think I should get anything more out of him. I went slowly out of the room.

As I was going along the passage, a door on my left opened and Josephine almost fell on top of me. Her appearance had the suddenness of a demon in an old-fashioned pantomime.

Her face and hands were filthy and a large cobweb floated from one ear.

‘Where have you been, Josephine?’

I peered through the half-open door. A couple of steps led up into an attic-like rectangular space in the gloom of which several large tanks could be seen.

‘In the cistern room.’

‘Why in the cistern room?’

Josephine replied in a brief businesslike way:

‘Detecting.’

‘What on earth is there to detect among the cisterns?’

To this, Josephine merely replied:

‘I must wash.’

‘I should say most decidedly.’

Josephine disappeared through the nearest bathroom door. She looked back to say:

‘I should say it’s about time for the next murder, wouldn’t you?’

‘What do you mean—the next murder?’

‘Well, in books there’s always a second murder about now. Someone who knows something is bumped off before they can tell what they know.’

‘You read too many detective stories, Josephine. Real life isn’t like that. And if anybody in this house knows something the last thing they seem to want to do is to talk about it.’

Josephine’s reply came to me rather obscurely by the gushing of water from a tap.

‘Sometimes it’s something that they don’t know that they do know.’

I blinked as I tried to think this out. Then, leaving Josephine to her ablutions, I went down to the floor below.

Just as I was going out through the front door to the staircase, Brenda came with a soft rush through the drawingroom door.

She came close to me and laid her hand on my arm, looking up in my face.

‘Well?’ she asked.

It was the same demand for information that Laurence had made, only it was phrased differently. And her one word was far more effective.

I shook my head.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

She gave a long sigh.

‘I’m so frightened,’ she said. ‘Charles, I’m so frigh tened…’

Her fear was very real. It communicated itself to me there in that narrow space. I wanted to reassure her, to help her. I had once more that poignant sense of her as terribly alone in hostile surroundings.

She might well have cried out: ‘Who is on my side?’

And what would the answer have been? Laurence Brown? And what, after all, was Laurence Brown? No tower of strength in a time of trouble. One of the weaker vessels. I remembered the two of them drifting in from the garden the night before.

I wanted to help her. I badly wanted to help her. But there was nothing much I could say or do. And I had at the bottom of my mind an embarrassed guilty feeling, as though Sophia’s scornful eyes were watching me. I remembered Sophia’s voice saying: ‘So she got you.’

And Sophia did not see, did not want to see, Brenda’s side of it. Alone, suspected of murder, with no one to stand by her.

‘The inquest is tomorrow,’ Brenda said. ‘What—what will happen?’

There I could reassure her.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘You needn’t worry about that. It will be adjourned for the police to make inquiries. It will probably set the Press loose, though. So far, there’s been no indication in the papers that it wasn’t a natural death. The Leonides have got a good deal of influence. But with an adjourned inquest—well, the fun will start.’

(What extraordinary things one said! The fun! Why must I choose that particular word?)

‘Will—will they be very dreadful?’

‘I shouldn’t give any interviews if I were you. You know, Brenda, you ought to have a lawyer—’ She recoiled with a terrific gasp of dismay. ‘No—no—not the way you mean. But someone to look after your interests and advise you as to procedure, and what to say and do, and what not to say and do.

‘You see,’ I added, ‘you’re very much alone.’

Her hand pressed my arm more closely.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You do understand that. You’ve helped, Charles, you have helped…’

I went down the stairs with a feeling of warmth, of satisfaction… Then I saw Sophia standing by the front door. Her voice was cold and rather dry.

‘What a long time you’ve been,’ she said. ‘They rang up for you from London. Your father wants you.’

‘At the Yard?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wonder what they want me for. They didn’t say?’

Sophia shook her head. Her eyes were anxious. I drew her to me.

‘Don’t worry, darling,’ I said, ‘I’ll soon be back.’