Chapter 19

It seems odd to me, looking back, how suddenly and completely my pity and sympathy for Brenda Leonides vanished with the discovery of her letters, the letters she had written to Laurence Brown. Was my vanity unable to stand up to the revelation that she loved Laurence Brown with a doting and sugary infatuation and had deliberately lied to me? I don’t know. I’m not a psychologist. I prefer to believe that it was the thought of the child Josephine, struck down in ruthless self-preservation, that dried up the springs of my sympathy.

‘Brown fixed that booby trap, if you ask me,’ said Taverner, ‘and it explains what puzzled me about it.’

‘What did puzzle you?’

‘Well, it was such a sappy thing to do. Look here, say the kid’s got hold of these letters—letters that are absolutely damning! The first thing to do is to try and get them back (after all, if the kid talks about them, but has got nothing to show, it can be put down as mere romancing), but you can’t get them back because you can’t find them. Then the only thing to do is to put the kid out of action for good. You’ve done one murder and you’re not squeamish about doing another. You know she’s fond of swinging on a door in a disused yard. The ideal thing to do is wait behind the door and lay her out as she comes through with a poker, or an iron bar, or a nice bit of hose-pipe. They’re all there ready to hand. Why fiddle about with a marble lion perched on top of a door which is as likely as not to miss her altogether and which even if it does fall on her may not do the job properly (which actually is how it turns out). I ask you—why?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘what’s the answer?’

‘The only idea I got to begin with was that it was intended to tie in with someone’s alibi. Somebody would have a nice fat alibI for the time when Josephine was being slugged. But that doesn’t wash because, to begin with, nobody seems to have any kind of alibi, and second, someone’s bound to look for the child at lunch time, and they’ll find the booby trap and the marble block, the whole modus operandi will be quite plain to see. Of course, if the murderer had removed the block before the child was found, then we might have been puzzled. But as it is the whole thing just doesn’t make sense.’

He stretched out his hands.

‘And what’s your present explanation?’

‘The personal element. Personal idiosyncrasy. Laurence Brown’s idiosyncrasy. He doesn’t like violence—he can’t force himself to do physical violence. He literally couldn’t have stood behind the door and socked the kid on the head. He could rig up a booby trap and go away and not see it happen.’

‘Yes, I see,’ I said slowly. ‘It’s the eserine in the insulin bottle all over again?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Do you think he did that without Brenda’s knowing?’

‘It would explain why she didn’t throw away the insulin bottle. Of course, they may have fixed it up between them—or she may have thought up the poison trick all by herself—a nice easy death for her tired old husband and all for the best in the best of possible worlds! But I bet she didn’t fix the booby trap. Women never have any faith in mechanical things working properly. And they are right. I think myself the eserine was her idea, but that she made her besotted slave do the switch. She’s the kind that usually manages to avoid doing anything equivocal themselves. Then they keep a nice happy conscience.’

He paused, then went on:

‘With these letters I think the DPP will say we have a case. They’ll take a bit of explaining away! Then, if the kid gets through all right everything in the garden will be lovely.’ He gave me a sideways glance. ‘How does it feel to be engaged to about a million pounds sterling?’

I winced. In the excitement of the last few hours, I had forgotten the developments about the will.

‘Sophia doesn’t know yet,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to tell her?’

‘I understand Gaitskill is going to break the sad (or glad) news after the inquest tomorrow.’ Taverner paused and looked at me thoughtfully.

‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘what the reactions will be from the family?’

Chapter 20

The inquest went off much as I had prophesied. It was adjourned at the request of the police.

We were in good spirits, for news had come through the night before from the hospital that Josephine’s injuries were much less serious than had been feared and that her recovery would be rapid. For the moment, Dr Gray said, she was to be allowed no visitors—not even her mother.

‘Particularly not her mother,’ Sophia murmured to me. ‘I made that quite clear to Dr Gray. Anyway, he knows mother.’

I must have looked rather doubtful, for Sophia said sharply:

‘Why the disapproving look?’

‘Well—surely a mother—’

‘I’m glad you’ve got a few nice old-fashioned ideas, Charles. But you don’t quite know what my mother is capable of yet. The darling can’t help it, but there would simply have to be a grand dramatic scene. And dramatic scenes aren’t the best things for anyone recovering from head injuries.’

‘You do think of everything, don’t you, my sweet.’

‘Well, somebody’s got to do the thinking now that grandfather’s gone.’

I looked at her speculatively. I saw that old Leonides’ acumen had not deserted him. The mantle of his responsibilities was already on Sophia’s shoulders.

After the inquest, Gaitskill accompanied us back to Three Gables. He cleared his throat and said pontifically:

‘There is an announcement it is my duty to make to you all.’

For this purpose the family assembled in Magda’s drawing-room. I had on this occasion the rather pleasurable sensations of the man behind the scenes. I knew in advance what Gaitskill had to say.

I prepared myself to observe the reactions of eve ryone.

Gaitskill was brief and dry. Any signs of personal feeling and annoyance were well held in check. He read first Aristide Leonides’ letter and then the will itself.

It was very interesting to watch. I only wished my eyes could be everywhere at once.

I did not pay much attention to Brenda and Laurence. The provision for Brenda in this will was the same. I watched primarily Roger and Philip, and after them Magda and Clemency.

My first impression was that they all behaved very well.

Philip’s lips were pressed closely together, his handsome head was thrown back against the tall chair in which he was sitting. He did not speak.

Magda, on the contrary, burst into speech as soon as Mr Gaitskill finished, her rich voice surging over his thin tones like an incoming tide drowning a rivulet.

‘Darling Sophia—how extraordinary—how romantic. Fancy old Sweetie Pie being so cunning and deceitful—just like a dear old baby. Didn’t he trust us? Did he think we’d be cross? He never seemed to be fonder of Sophia than the rest of us. But really, it’s most dramatic.’

Suddenly Magda jumped lightly to her feet, danced over to Sophia and swept her a very grand court curtsey.

‘Madame Sophia, your penniless and broken-down-old mother begs you for alms.’ Her voice took on a Cockney whine. ‘Spare us a copper, old dear. Your Ma wants to go to the pictures.’

Her hand, crooked into a claw, twitched urgently at Sophia.

Philip, without moving, said through stiff lips:

‘Please, Magda, there’s no call for any unnecessary clowning.’

‘Oh, but Roger,’ cried Magda, suddenly turning to Roger. ‘Poor darling Roger. Sweetie was going to come to the rescue and then, before he could do it, he died. And now Roger doesn’t get anything. Sophia,’ she turned imperiously, ‘you simply must do something about Roger.’

‘No,’ said Clemency. She had moved forward a step. Her face was defiant. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

Roger came shambling over to Sophia like a large amiable bear.

He took her hands affectionately.

‘I don’t want a penny, my dear girl. As soon as this business is cleared up—or has died down, which is more what it looks like—then Clemency and I are off to the West Indies and the simple life. If I’m ever in extremis I’ll apply to the head of the family’—he grinned at her engagingly—‘but until then I don’t want a penny. I’m a very simple person really, my dear—you ask Clemency if I’m not.’

An unexpected voice broke in. It was Edith de Haviland’s.

‘That’s all very well,’ she said. ‘But you’ve got to pay some attention to the look of the thing. If you go bankrupt, Roger, and then slink off to the ends of the earth without Sophia’s holding out a helping hand, there will be a good deal of ill-natured talk that will not be pleasant for Sophia.’

‘What does public opinion matter?’ asked Cle mency scornfully.

‘We know it doesn’t to you, Clemency,’ said Edith de Haviland sharply, ‘but Sophia lives in this world. She’s a girl with good brains and a good heart, and I’ve no doubt that Aristide was quite right in his selection of her to hold the family fortunes—though to pass over your two sons in their lifetime seems odd to our English ideas—but I think it would be very unfortunate if it got about that she behaved greedily over this—and had let Roger crash without trying to help him.’

Roger went over to his aunt. He put his arms round her and hugged her.

‘Aunt Edith,’ he said. ‘You are a darling—and a stubborn fighter, but you don’t begin to understand. Clemency and I know what we want—and what we don’t want!’

Clemency, a sudden spot of colour showing in each thin cheek, stood defiantly facing them.

‘None of you,’ she said, ‘understand Roger. You never have! I don’t suppose you ever will! Come on, Roger.’

They left the room as Mr Gaitskill began clearing his throat and arranging his papers. His countenance was one of deep disapprobation. He had disliked the foregoing scenes very much. That was clear.

My eyes came at last to Sophia herself. She stood straight and handsome by the fireplace, her chin up, her eyes steady. She had just been left an immense fortune, but my principal thought was how alone she had suddenly become. Between her and her family a barrier had been erected. Henceforth she was divided from them, and I fancied that she already knew and faced that fact. Old Leonides had laid a burden upon her shoulders—he had been aware of that and she knew it herself. He had believed that her shoulders were strong enough to bear it, but just at this moment I felt unutterably sorry for her.

So far she had not spoken—indeed she had been given no chance, but very soon now speech would be forced from her. Already, beneath the affection of her family, I could sense latent hostility. Even in Magda’s graceful playacting there had been, I fancied, a subtle malice. And there were other darker undercurrents that had not yet come to the surface.

Mr Gaitskill’s throat clearings gave way to precise and measured speech.

‘Allow me to congratulate you, Sophia,’ he said. ‘You are a very wealthy woman. I should not advise any—er—precipitate action. I can advance you what ready money is needed for current expenses. If you wish to discuss future arrangements I shall be happy to give you the best advice in my power. Make an appointment with me at Lincoln’s Inn when you have had plenty of time to think things over.’

‘Roger—’ began Edith de Haviland obstinately.

Mr Gaitskill snapped in quickly.

‘Roger,’ he said, ‘must fend for himself. He’s a grown man—er, fifty-four, I believe. And Aristide Leonides was quite right, you know. He isn’t a business man. Never will be.’ He looked at Sophia. ‘If you put Associated Catering on its legs again, don’t be under any illusions that Roger can run it successfully.’

‘I shouldn’t dream of putting Associated Catering on its legs again,’ said Sophia.

It was the first time she had spoken. Her voice was crisp and businesslike.

‘It would be an idiotic thing to do,’ she added.

Gaitskill shot a glance at her from under his brows, and smiled to himself. Then he wished everyone goodbye and went out.

There were a few moments of silence, a realization that the family circle was alone with itself.

Then Philip got up stiffly.

‘I must get back to the library,’ he said. ‘I have lost a lot of time.’

‘Father—’ Sophia spoke uncertainly, almost pleadingly.

I felt her quiver and draw back as Philip turned cold hostile eyes on her.

‘You must forgive me not congratulating you,’ he said. ‘But this has been rather a shock to me. I would not have believed that my father would have so humiliated me—that he would have disregarded my lifetime’s devotion—yes— devotion.’

For the first time, the natural man broke through the crust of icy restraint.

‘My God,’ he cried. ‘How could he do this to me? He was always unfair to me—always.’

‘Oh no, Philip, no, you mustn’t think that,’ cried Edith de Haviland. ‘Don’t regard this as another slight. It isn’t. When people get old, they turn naturally to a younger generation… I assure you it’s only that… and besides, Aristide had a very keen business sense. I’ve often heard him say that two lots of death duties—’

‘He never cared for me,’ said Philip. His voice was low and hoarse. ‘It was always Roger—Roger. Well, at least’—an extraordinary expression of spite suddenly marred his handsome features—‘father realized that Roger was a fool and a failure. He cut Roger out, too.’

‘What about me?’ said Eustace.

I had hardly noticed Eustace until now, but I perceived that he was trembling with some violent emotion. His face was crimson, there were, I thought, tears in his eyes. His voice shook as it rose hysterically.

‘It’s a shame!’ said Eustace. ‘It’s a damned shame! How dare grandfather do this to me? How dare he? I was his only grandson. How dare he pass me over for Sophia? It’s not fair. I hate him. I hate him. I’ll never forgive him as long as I live. Beastly tyrannical old man. I wanted him to die. I wanted to get out of this house. I wanted to be my own master. And now I’ve got to be bullied and messed around by Sophia, and be made to look a fool. I wish I was dead…’

His voice broke and he rushed out of the room.

Edith de Haviland gave a sharp click of her tongue.

‘No self-control,’ she murmured.

‘I know just how he feels,’ cried Magda.

‘I’m sure you do,’ said Edith with acidity in her tone.

‘The poor sweet! I must go after him.’

‘Now, Magda—’ Edith hurried after her.

Their voices died away. Sophia remained looking at Philip. There was, I think, a certain pleading in her glance. If so, it got no response. He looked at her coldly, quite in control of himself once more.

‘You played your cards very well, Sophia,’ he said and went out of the room.

‘That was a cruel thing to say,’ I cried. ‘Sophia—’

She stretched out her hands to me. I took her in my arms.

‘This is too much for you, my sweet.’

‘I know just how they feel,’ said Sophia.

‘That old devil, your grandfather, shouldn’t have let you in for this.’

She straightened her shoulders.

‘He believed I could take it. And so I can. I wish—I wish Eustace didn’t mind so much.’

‘He’ll get over it.’

‘Will he? I wonder. He’s the kind that broods terribly. And I hate father being hurt.’

‘Your mother’s all right.’

‘She minds a bit. It goes against the grain to have to come and ask your daughter for money to put on plays. She’ll be after me to put on the Edith Thompson one before you can turn round.’

‘And what will you say? If it keeps her happy…

Sophia pulled herself right out of my arms, her head went back.

‘I shall say No! It’s a rotten play and mother couldn’t play the part. It would be throwing the money away.’

I laughed softly. I couldn’t help it.

‘What is it?’ Sophia demanded suspiciously.

‘I’m beginning to understand why your grandfather left you his money. You’re a chip off the old block, Sophia.’