This Little Measure, page 12
“Anyone in the house, in theory. I don’t lock my door. But I’m not a particularly heavy sleeper, either.”
“The next day?”
“The same people, at the office. I had lunch—a long, expensive one—with Sir Charles Conroy; and afterwards—” He broke off, and then added irritably, “I’m trying to remember. I think it would just be the people I’ve already mentioned.”
“Then tell me instead, who knew you had the capsules in your possession?”
“Anyone at home, we all had breakfast together on Monday. Anyone any of us told. Anyone!”
“In addition to the people you have mentioned, you also saw your father at the office that Tuesday afternoon.”
“Yes.” He made no attempt to elaborate, and Sir Nicholas waited only a very short time before he suggested: “Let us turn, then, to the poison itself. What do you know of aconite?”
“Nothing,” said Roddy.
“Monkshood . . . aconitum napellus.” Antony turned over the envelope he was writing on, and read out the description from the notes he had previously made on it.
“Is that what it comes from? I’ve only heard of it.” He looked at Sir Nicholas blankly for a moment, and then said, “Oh, my God!” and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead.
Counsel made no pretence of misunderstanding him. “I’m afraid this discussion of the means of death is distressing,” he said. “Unfortunately, it is also necessary.”
“We shall know more about aconite presently,” said Antony, without looking up. He seemed to be offering a flat statement, but Sir Nicholas interrupted him testily. “That’s true enough, if you must state the obvious,” he declared. “But even now—”
“I’m not very clear about the stuff,” said Roddy, in what was obviously meant to be a normal voice. “But they couldn’t prove I bought any, because I didn’t.”
“It isn’t quite as easy as that,” Antony told him. “If the root can be mistaken for horseradish I suppose anyone could go out into the country for some, if he knew where it grew. He raised his eyes as he spoke. Roddy had gone rather pale and said now, with difficulty:
“He was dead when I got home you know, but Aunt Janet told me . . . it wasn’t nice, the way he died.”
“No.” Again Antony’s tone had no expression. He glanced at his uncle, who was scowling, and added: “I’ve been in touch with Doctor Raven about some additional tests.”
“So I should hope.” Sir Nicholas spoke repressively, but this time he left the subject. “Let us turn our attention to the picture,” he said.
Roddy greeted the suggestion without enthusiasm. “It’s just what I didn’t want to happen,” he said gloomily. “I expect the newspapers will love it.”
“You were fond of your grandfather, I think.”
“Yes.” He did not seem inclined to enlarge on the statement.
Sir Nicholas said: “I can understand, then, that the idea of publicity is distasteful to you,” and somehow made the words an invitation.
“It’s damnable!” Roddy became suddenly voluble. “He was always so alive, you know; nothing ever worried him, nothing was too difficult, or too much trouble. He’d raise the roof if he was angry, but at least you knew where you were with him. He was never petty, and he never expected other people to be, either. There were always tales about him, of course; and I suppose the nickname . . . well, I suppose there was some reason for it. But I never heard that he did anybody any harm, and there must have been plenty of people who were grateful to him. Now they’ll say they ‘always knew’ he was crooked; they’ll say it couldn’t have been the only thing. They’ll forget all the worthwhile things he did, they’ll forget he was a great man; and they won’t care that some of us loved him.”
“And yet you think,” said Antony, as though this outburst was nothing out of the ordinary, “that he stole the Velasquez from the Stonehill Gallery.”
Roddy looked at him. He seemed to be considering the various possibilities this statement opened to him, but eventually he said, “Well, it was there . . . he had it,” in a tone which did not indicate any real doubts. After a while he added, but less positively, “He wanted it, you know . . . he tried to buy it. Uncle Gil told me that. I suppose he thought—”
“Like swindling an insurance company,” said Antony, helpfully. For some reason this simple remark appeared to infuriate his uncle, who came suddenly to life, banged his fist on the table, and snapped “Be quiet!” in a tone that invited no argument. Antony went back to his doodling; Sir Nicholas eyed him suspiciously until he was sure no retort was forthcoming, and then turned back to Roddy Gaskell again.
“Were you responsible for the second disappearance of the picture?” he asked abruptly.
Again Roddy took his time about replying, and when he spoke it was in an injured tone. “I thought you believed me,’ he complained.
“Perhaps I did not make myself clear. You might be guilty of that, and still innocent of the crime of which you are now accused.” (He’s being careful, thought Antony, not to commit himself).
“Well, I suppose . . . but I didn’t, anyway.”
“Have you any idea who did?” Sir Nicholas pressed his question.
“None whatever.”
“But the picture was found in your safe. How do you explain its presence there?”
“I told you,” said Roddy, “I can’t explain it.”
“Do you agree with what the clerk—Jenkinson, I believe—had to say: that only two keys existed, one in his possession, one in yours?”
“Yes, that’s quite right.”
“Do you think that Jenkinson might have put the canvas in the safe, either on his own account, or because some other person asked him to?”
Roddy took his time to think that one out. “On his own account . . . that’s ridiculous,” he said. “And I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be open to a bribe.”
“What’s more to the point,” said Antony, venturing to insinuate himself into the conversation again, “nobody’d be likely to saddle themselves with an accomplice, in a case like this.”
Sir Nicholas ignored the interruption. “When did you last open the safe?” he asked.
“On Tuesday morning, the day my father died. I needed a copy of the contract we have with Conroys . . . before going to work on the old boy at lunch time, you know.”
Sir Nicholas frowned. “You’re trying to tell me the picture wasn’t there; that it was introduced into the safe at some time between Tuesday and whenever-it-was the police made their search?”
“Well, that’s what I don’t know. It could have been there. “Good heavens, Roddy,” said Sir Nicholas, exasperated, “you couldn’t have missed seeing it. Even rolled up—”
“But that’s just it. There were some old charts, rolled up and stacked on end at the back of the safe. It could easily have been among them.” He turned his head, and found Antony’s eyes fixed on him, and added with sudden excitement: “That’s how it got there, I expect . . . I can’t imagine why I didn’t realise . . . when I put the charts back.”
Sir Nicholas closed his eyes and appeared to be praying. “I suppose it would be too much to ask you to explain,” he said eventually. “You had the charts out, you say? Were they of a size comparable with the rolled canvas?”
Roddy measured with his hands. “Various sizes,” he said. “Quite big enough.”
“I suppose you are inferring that you took the charts away from the office?”
“I took them home,” said Roddy patiently, as though the whole thing should now be obvious. “Dad wanted to show them to someone who was coming to dinner. There were eight of them, and they were tied together loosely with tape. They were like that when he gave them to me next morning to take back, but I took the tape off before I put them in the safe; they fitted better that way. And I never gave them another thought. Not till just now.”
“Where were they overnight? I mean when you had them at home.”
“In the study . . . at least, I suppose so.”
“You think their presence might have suggested to someone a means of getting the canvas out of the house?”
“Yes, don’t you?” His excitement left him suddenly. “But that means—”
“Who else was at dinner that evening?” Sir Nicholas had no intention of wasting more time than necessary on his client’s sensibilities, and his tone was bracing.
“I don’t know, I was out,” said Roddy. “And now I remember, it was on the Wednesday I took them home; and on the Friday morning my father asked me if I’d forgotten about taking them back to the office. Well, I had, of course.”
“And when was this?”
“The week before I came to see Antony. Just before we found the picture was missing,” he added.
“I . . . see. And about that visit of yours, Roddy. Did you mean to inform your whole family what you were doing?”
“Of course not.” He looked at Antony. “I meant to do just as we said: tell my father Sir Nicholas wanted to see the picture. He’d have cut up rough about my lack of discretion, but that couldn’t be helped. Only Gran heard us talking; she was only guessing, but when she put it up to me it didn’t seem worth while denying that I hoped—” He gestured slightly, an oddly indecisive movement of his hands, and turned back to Sir Nicholas again. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“And not without reason,” said Sir Nicholas; but he smiled as he spoke, and his mind seemed already to be taken up with the next of his points. “You have evaded the question once, Roddy, but now I’m afraid we must revert to this matter of your relations with your father. You will certainly be faced with cross-examination upon this subject when we get into court.”
“Yes . . . well.” Antony had expected a flare of anger, but Roddy’s tone held no emotion of any kind. “We didn’t get on very well,” he volunteered at last.
This was too much for Sir Nicholas, who rose from his chair (as Antony later told Jenny) like a rocketing pheasant, and began to stride angrily backwards and forwards across the width of the narrow room. “I am obliged to you for the information,” he said awfully.
Roddy was leaning back in his chair now, and strangely the look of strain had left him for the moment, and been replaced by genuine amusement. He said, reflectively: “I wouldn’t have needed two motives, would I?”
Sir Nicholas ceased his pacing, and came back to stand at the head of the table, gripping the back of his chair as though only with difficulty did he restrain himself from hurling it at his client’s head. “One would have contributed to the other,” he explained. “In view of Mrs. Blake’s attitude, you must realise that the Crown will have plenty of ammunition. They will say, I believe, that the immediate motive was this business about the picture; but, obviously, you would have been more likely to resort to drastic measures if a state of ill-will already existed between you and Andrew.” As Roddy showed no immediate signs of answering, he added, deliberately: “Counsel for the Prosecution would be failing in his duty if he ignored such matters in a case of patricide.”
“But it wasn’t . . . I didn’t kill him.”
“That is the charge, however. We must answer it.”
“I don’t see,” said Roddy sulkily, “how it would help you to know—”
“That you hated your father?” Sir Nicholas prompted gently. Roddy gave him a hurt look, but said after a moment, quite calmly:
“Funnily enough, I didn’t. It might have made things more interesting. I didn’t like him, though,” he added, conscientiously.
“The prosecution will have details of every cause of disagreement between you,” said Sir Nicholas. “I imagine you must have come up against Andrew’s rather stern principles quite early in life. Will you tell me―?”
“All right.” He was leaning forward now, and his hands were clenched on the table in front of him. When he spoke it was quickly, almost eagerly; but neither Antony nor his uncle was under any illusion. he found the necessity almost intolerable. “We only need go back to the end of the war,” he said. “Mother took Dorrie and me down to the country; we have a cottage at Temple Guiting, but nobody goes there now. We didn’t really see much of Dad in those days: an occasional week-end, but the trains were pretty bad; and sometimes a bit more in the summer. At the time, of course, I took that for granted, and I do realise now how busy he must have been. Anyway, I went away to school a year before the war ended, and it was during that year Mother died.”
“Yes,” said Sir Nicholas. “I remember.”
“Do you, sir? It’s funny to think you knew them all quite well. My mother was . . . well, that was a bad year,” Roddy said; and sounded as though the admission surprised him.
Sir Nicholas did not comment on this assertion. He said only: “And so you went back to London.”
“Not straight away. Not till the following spring,” said Roddy. His voice was carefully level. “There was a governess sort of person for Dorrie, and I expect it seemed the best thing. You see, our London house—which I don’t really remember at all—had been bombed, and Dad moved in at number 34. I suppose it was after Mother died he decided to stay there, and by the time we got back Aunt Janet was already installed, and all set to take the burden of us off Gran’s shoulders.”
“From what I know of Mrs. Gaskell, she would have been able to deal with the situation.” Sir Nicholas was smiling, and after a moment Roddy relaxed and smiled back at him.
“Of course she would,” he agreed. “But it sounded well, and Aunt Janet likes being a martyr.”
“Which brings us to the question: why doesn’t she like you?” Roddy frowned over that. “It sounds conceited if I say I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose it’s just incompatibility. She’s very like Dad in some ways, you know.”
“Yes,” said Sir Nicholas. It was obvious that he contemplated without pleasure the picture that was being drawn for him. “Well now,” he went on more briskly after a pause, “what will Mrs. Blake be able to tell the police about that period of your life?”
“She’ll say, when I was home there was always trouble of one sort or another,” said Roddy. He paused, and then added explosively: “Nothing was right . . . nothing I could ever do. And if Dad by any chance came to the end of his list of sins, Aunt Janet could always be relied on to think up one or two new ones.”
“Did this . . . this constant bickering trouble you?” asked Sir Nicholas. Roddy grinned at him.
“Not particularly. How did you guess?”
“Then tell me about the first major disagreement.”
“It won’t really need Aunt Janet to tell the police about that,” said Roddy. He might not have been speaking in a boastful spirit, but certainly he was unabashed by the recollection. “Uncle Gil says all the Gaskells but him are money-grubbers, so I suppose that was why—”
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” demanded Sir Nicholas.
“I started a book-making business at school,” said Roddy, with a sidelong look to see how his companions were taking this revelation. “It seemed a good idea at the time. Well, I daresay it was illegal,” he added, making a concession to what he obviously regarded as the eccentricity of his audience, “but there wasn’t anything wrong about it.”
Sir Nicholas was eyeing him coldly. “I can well imagine,” he remarked, “that you found your grandfather the most congenial member of your family.”
“I don’t think,” said Roddy, slowly, “that’s intended for a compliment.”
“It is not.”
“Oh, well! To go back to the business venture, it wasn’t exactly a popular move; there was a row at school, and the newspapers got hold of it. I don’t suppose you’d remember, sir, it wasn’t in all the papers. I mean . . . probably not in the ones you read.”
“And how did your family feel about that?”
“Just as you’d expect. Righteous indignation. I never particularly minded Dad being angry, you know, but I couldn’t stand him being shocked.”
“Your grandfather, however, did not share his sentiments?” Roddy grinned. “He wasn’t exactly sympathetic,” he said. “But at least he made a push to do something about it. He came roaring down to school; well, I don’t know how he fixed it, but they were all set to throw me out . . . and then they didn’t.”
“You surprise me,” said Sir Nicholas. He seemed to be thinking something over, and added after a moment, “Er . . . Roddy. If you have occasion to speak of this in court, try not to do so with quite so much enthusiasm.”
“Should I shock them?”
“Not precisely. But I think it would be unwise to give the impression that you were in any way enjoying yourself.”
“Oh!” said Roddy, blankly. And added quite meekly a moment later, “Is that how it sounds?”
“That’s exactly how it sounds,” Sir Nicholas told him.
“Well . . . I’ll do my best.” He sounded doubtful. “What do you want to know next?”
“The next major cause of disagreement with your father.”
“Well—” said Roddy. “Business, I suppose.” And now he was watching Antony as he spoke. “That’s just since grandfather died, of course. Dad was so cautious.”
“Before that,” said Sir Nicholas. Roddy looked an enquiry, and Antony again took upon himself the task of explanation.
“He means his taste in newspapers is rather more catholic than you might suppose,” he said. The statement seemed only to bewilder Roddy, but Sir Nicholas nodded his approval.
“The occasion you have mentioned was not the only time your affairs have been taken up by the press,” he remarked.
“No,” said Roddy. He seemed disinclined to add anything to this, and Antony broke in again, saying crossly:
“If you’re thinking I’ll run to Liz with the information, you’re wrong. Anyway, she probably knows already.”
