Let's Choose Executors, page 18
“There’s nothing more,” said Hugo. He sounded exhausted now.
“Very well.”
“And you’ll call me as a witness?”
“I’ve got to think about it.”
“But you said . . . Granny wouldn’t have changed her mind, you know. Once she knew about Nancy she’d never have forgiven me.” His voice was bitter again as he added: “She never gave anyone a second chance.”
“There could be complications.” Maitland was irritable again. The last thing he wanted was to find himself in sympathy with this difficult young man. He’d have to see Nancy, he thought; and what then? Fall back on Vera Langhorne’s suggestion, and try to get the girl acquitted for lack of evidence thereby handing her over alive to every malicious tongue in Chedcombe? Or accept the Judge’s offer . . . ? “I’ll be damned if I do that,” he said aloud; and shivered, as though he were only now aware that the afternoon was cold. “Who else could have killed Mrs. Randall?” he asked, finding Hugo’s eyes fixed on him speculatively.
“I’ve been thinking about that, but I don’t seem to get anywhere.”
“Could it possibly have been an accident?”
“I wish I thought so. There was a cork in the test tube, you know, and it was a pretty tight fit.”
“Or suicide?”
“She had no reason. Besides, she thought it was a sin.”
“Temporary insanity?”
“She wasn’t mad,” said Hugo positively.
“Then . . . someone who knew the house, knew where she would be sitting, and arrived almost immediately after Fran left.”
“You mean, otherwise she’d have drunk her toddy and gone to bed.”
“Exactly. And I think we have to add, someone who came to Ravenscroft with intent to murder; because Fran didn’t see anyone in the lane, which means he was taking care to avoid an encounter.”
“Someone who knew the digitalis was in the workbox,” said Hugo, and again his voice was cold and expressionless.
“Five days after she put it there a lot of people must have known,” Maitland told him, and watched him relax again. “If we go down to the house,” Antony added casually, “do you think I could see Mark?”
“I thought Tommy said you couldn’t talk to the prosecution witnesses.”
“It would be highly improper. But this isn’t about the case, you see.”
“I’m bound to say, he isn’t in a very amiable mood,” said Hugo. He sounded puzzled, and a little suspicious; but also, in a queer way, resigned.
“I’ll have to risk that.”
“This is the quickest way, then.” He opened the gate; Floss was through in an instant, and turned a reproving eye on her two supporters as they scampered after her.
“I gather you’ve had some success at the shows,” said Maitland as they started across the field. “The trophies in the study,” he explained.
“Oh, I see. Yes, we haven’t done badly at all.” He accepted the change of subject without comment, but Antony realised suddenly that he’d been wrong in thinking Hugo in any way resigned. There was a tautness about him, as though he expected the worst and was braced to meet it; and he hadn’t referred at all to Mark’s appearance in court, though Nell must have told him, even if his brother had avoided the subject, that the defence had not been quite so kindly disposed as the prosecution.
“Celandine and her sisters?” Maitland asked, still negligently.
“Partly, yes; the cups are mostly for show jumping.” He was answering at random, but still in that tense way. “Grandmother said it was a waste of time,” he added. It was obvious that old Mrs. Randall was never far from his mind.
“Does Mark ride?”
“For convenience only. But Marian’s interested, she’s done quite well.”
A nice, safe outlet for her energies, Antony thought; but he didn’t say it aloud. “Do you get any shooting?” he said.
“Just for the pot.” Each question, it seemed, was being passed as harmless, but with the mental reservation that perhaps the next one . . .
“Is Mark a good shot?”
“Yes, he is. In a casual, absent-minded way that I find intensely annoying,” Hugo admitted. “The trouble is, you see, he doesn’t really care about anything except these experiments of his.”
“Don’t you think so?” Something in Maitland’s tone made Hugo look at him quickly.
“What do you mean?”
“I think he’s trying, rather desperately, to protect you. The question is, you see, why should he think you need defending?”
“You’ll have to explain that,” said Hugo in a tight voice.
“I’ll give him credit for having genuinely convinced himself that Fran Gifford killed your grandmother. But he’s still afraid of what may come to light . . . if I ask too many questions, for instance.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he’s been trying to discourage me . . . not very cleverly. In fact, I found his activities almost amusing, until last night.”
Another gate. They were approaching the outbuildings now. “I don’t understand,” said Hugo mechanically.
“We’ll let him explain, shall we?”
“Very well.” He had been walking slowly, and more slowly, but now he quickened his pace again; through the door in the high wall, across the cobbled yard. A square-built, dark man was trundling a milk churn, obviously empty; the door of the cowshed stood open to the sunlight, there was a faint, companionable sound of movement beyond; nearer the house, on the same side of the yard, a handsome roan looked out over the half-door of the stable; in one of the buildings on the left the new litter of piglets squealed demandingly; a number of Rhode Island Reds had discovered a trail of spilled corn, but scattered indignantly at their passing. Hugo went straight across to a door at the back of the house, gestured toward a room on the right—”Wait there, will you?”—and then strode off down the flagged passage with Floss at his heels.
Antony went into the room, and the two young dogs tumbled in after him. A workmanlike place, with no concessions to comfort: three wooden chairs, a long deal table with some ledgerlike books spread open, a metal filing cabinet, a large-scale map on the wall. He went over to the window and looked out over the yard again. The dark man had gone back for another churn, and the brown hens were pecking placidly at the corn again, as though nothing could ever disturb them. He turned when he heard footsteps, and Mark came in. Hugo followed, paused for a moment while Floss slipped past him, and closed the door carefully. “Now!” he said, and leaned back against it. He had what seemed an uncharacteristic air of patience now, and looked prepared to wait all day.
Mark had come in with an unconvincing air of bravado. He scowled when he saw Antony and said ungraciously: “What do you want?” And then, more forcefully: “Didn’t you say enough to me in court?”
“I thought so, certainly. It seems I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Until last night I thought your actions ill-considered, no more. But what good do you think it would have done, even if Fran Gifford were guilty—?”
“If she was guilty . . . that’s a good one!”
Hugo said, “Mark,” quietly and without emphasis, and he hunched an impatient shoulder and added petulantly:
“Oh, all right! I know you don’t like me to say it.”
“What have you been doing?”
Mark looked quickly at Maitland, and hesitated as though waiting for him to speak. Then he said airily: “I just wrote him a couple of letters. that’s all.” Hugo was staring at him as though the words made no sense at all. “Oh, well I chucked one through his bedroom window at the George. I thought it would have more—more impact that way.”
The word was so apt that Antony might have found it amusing if the look on Hugo’s face hadn’t sobered him. “What else?” asked Hugo; and when his brother did not reply, repeated urgently: “What else?”
“Somebody shot at him in the Close last night. I suppose he thinks I did that too.”
“And did you?”
“Nothing to do with me,” said Mark. “I was in my room all the evening, reading.”
“Then how do you know—?”
“I went into town this morning. Everyone knows,” he added expansively. Hugo looked at him in silence for a moment, and then turned to Maitland again. “Is this true?”
“It’s certainly true that someone tried to shoot me.” He spoke almost casually, but his eyes were intent on Mark’s face. “Were you alone in your room yesterday evening?”
“Well . . . yes, of course.”
“And there is on the premises, I’ve no doubt, at least one point twenty-two calibre rifle?”
“I don’t see what that proves.”
“Nothing, in itself. But there was another message, you know, written in green paint on the pavement in front of the George.”
“That wasn’t me. I didn’t even . . . what did it say?”
“It was cleaned up before I saw it.”
“We use black paint here, mostly; some white at the front of the house.”
“So I noticed. Well, I don’t want you to admit anything, but if there’s any more violence—”
“I tell you, I didn’t—”
“Forget it! I’m sorry,” he added, and looked for a moment at Hugo. “That’s all, I think. I’d better be getting along.”
Hugo straightened himself. He did not look at his brother, or speak to him, but pulled the door open and waited for Antony to go through, and then followed him out into the yard. Halfway across he said abruptly, “It won’t happen again,” and as they reached the door in the wall he halted and asked: “Would you like Ken to drive you?”
“I’d rather walk. Can I get back to town across country, or must I stick to the road?”
“There’s a short cut. I’ll show you.” He gave Maitland a rather odd look as he fell into step beside him.
“It was kind of you to offer me a lift, in the circumstances,” said Antony lightly. “I’m sorry about that, you know.” He wanted suddenly, almost with desperation, to break through the wall of reserve with which Hugo had again surrounded himself. “Boys get some queer ideas, I shouldn’t—”
“Was the shot meant to kill you?”
“I’m afraid it was.” He found himself adding: “I don’t know it was Mark; in fact, to be honest, I’ve got a sort of ‘what is wrong with this picture’ feeling about it.”
Hugo didn’t seem to hear any of this beyond the answer to his own question. “It isn’t that. It isn’t only that,” he corrected himself. “You said . . . he was trying to protect me.
“I think he may have had some idea—” He broke off then, and added: “You needn’t worry about the police, you know.”
“Why not?”
“The bullet was flattened, they just think it was a point twenty-two calibre from the weight. There’ll be a check on all rifles licensed in the district . . . and a lot of good it will do them.”
“Then why—?”
“Mark didn’t tell you the incident took place on the Judge’s doorstep. That puts the Chief Constable on the spot, you see. He has to try everything, useful or not.” But the words reminded him of his own dilemma, and the uncomfortable fact that he was no nearer a decision than he had been the night before.
They had circled the buildings and were halfway down the drive before Hugo spoke again. He said painfully: “You see, I’m wondering if it really was that.”
“What then?” But in answer to his inquiring look Hugo only shook his head. They reached the lane and crossed it, and Antony clambered over the fence.
“If you keep along the side of the hedge here, there’s a bridge at the bottom; and a cart track at the other side.”
“Thank you.” He hesitated. “What’s troubling you?” he said. “Are you going to tell me?
Hugo was looking past him, somewhere over his right shoulder. The sun was lower now and the shadows were lengthening. “When I thought it was Fran,” he said slowly, “I still wouldn’t have done anything to harm her.”
“No,” Antony agreed. He wasn’t quite sure of the point of this remark, and his doubt sounded in his voice.
“I’m trying to explain,” said Hugo, “but it isn’t really so easy.” His voice was quite expressionless. “You see, it seems to be a matter of choosing . . . who to betray.”
“I can’t make that choice for you, I’m afraid.”
“No, I . . . I said nothing mattered but Fran, didn’t I? So I’ve got to tell you I was wondering—” He paused, and then added in a rush: “If Mark has been raising a smoke screen . . . suppose it was just to protect himself.”
Antony stood very still for a moment. There was an appeal here, a desperate need of reassurance; and how could he answer it when he knew so little? He said at last, slowly, “You’ve felt responsible for your brother and sister for a long time, haven’t you?” and didn’t realise, until he saw Hugo’s startled look, how irrelevant the comment must have seemed.
“I suppose I have. But—”
“Then don’t you think it’s time you started thinking about your own affairs for a change?”
Hugo gave a hard laugh, and said in a tone that was almost flippant: “It’s rather late for that.” Floss whined uneasily and pressed herself closer against his side.
They were still standing there by the fence when Antony turned and left them. He found the short cut easily enough, but he didn’t really enjoy the walk back to town.
3
He knew he should ’phone Tommy Davenant, but managed to persuade himself that tomorrow would do; or perhaps he would talk to him later that evening. By the time he had finished his tea he had quite made up his mind: he was going to see Nancy Selkirk alone, though what Vera Langhorne’s comments would be when he told her didn’t bear thinking about.
He had an address from the ’phone book; Mrs. Mary Selkirk, of 17 Carlton Crescent, was the only one of her name listed, and he hoped to goodness she was the “fool of a woman” Miss Langhorne had referred to. He had no wish to provoke an argument by asking either of his colleagues where the girl was to be found. Finally he decided to check up with his watchdog, who seemed a little put out at being accosted, but was helpful enough once he realised his quarry bore him no malice. It ended by their walking round to the Selkirks’ together, while Antony thought with pleasure that, with any luck, the expedition would provide a puzzle for Inspector Arkwright’s leisure hours.
Carlton Crescent was part of a housing development on the western side of the town, a carefully planned estate of mock-Olde English houses; that was the only description Antony could find for them, they didn’t seem to conform to any known architectural period. He found the district depressing, and was thankful he wasn’t seeing it by daylight.
The front windows of No. 17 were all in darkness, but when he walked down the path at the side of the house, through a pergola-type erection which could only have been designed genteelly to screen the dustbins, he found himself facing another door with a lighted lattice window beside it. There was a black-painted knocker inappropriately shaped like a fish; he ignored it and pressed the bell, and was rewarded by a jarring, buzzing noise immediately inside. There followed a moment’s dead silence, then the sound of footsteps; a moment later the door opened and Nancy Selkirk said reproachfully: “I didn’t think you’d come so soon.” Then, as the light streamed out and she saw him clearly for the first time, she broke off with a gasp and added, startled: “Oh, it’s you!”
“I’d like to talk to you, Miss Selkirk, if I may.”
“You’d better come in.” She backed away from the door, leaving it open for him to follow her. It led straight into the kitchen, and here the olde worlde atmosphere the planning authorities had tried so hard to achieve had been ruthlessly abandoned. The room looked as if “our home expert” from one of the glossier women’s magazines had been let run riot in it. The electric stove was shining and corpulent, the sink stainless steel and obviously nearly new; there were far too many cupboards, and what are known—to advertisers, if to no one else—as “working surfaces” gleamed in a particularly distressing shade of mustard yellow. It was a pity that Nancy herself should spoil the picture; her hair was in rollers, her nose unpowdered, and she had obviously been interrupted in the middle of manicuring her nails. A good deal of paraphernalia was spread about on the centre table, which also had a yellow top.
She had recovered from her surprise now, and her natural instincts were reasserting themselves. “You ought to have let me know,” she said; it wasn’t really sensible to pat her hair as she spoke, but perhaps the gesture gave her some satisfaction. “You see, I was getting ready—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” said Antony amiably.
“Well, that’s all right.” She glanced at the clock as she spoke. “If you’ll give me a moment—” She picked up a pink plastic tray which held some spare rollers, and swept out of the room without allowing him any chance to speak. Antony pulled out a chair and sat down near the table; as he waited he was wondering partly what on earth he was going to say to her when she returned, but mostly whether they ever ate at all in this house, the kitchen was so unnaturally tidy; except for Nancy’s clutter, which was hardly appetizing.
She was gone for ten minutes, and when she came back she made an entrance that was obviously intended to impress. Her hair, freed from the confining rollers, was soft and fluffy, her face was delicately made up, and the blue dress she had chosen to wear suited her to perfection; she looked, in fact, enchantingly pretty . . . and obviously she knew it.
“I can’t think why I left you sitting here,” she said in a very grand way. “Won’t you come into the sitting room?” He was finding the kitchen oppressive, but the other room would probably be as bad in its own way, and most likely cold as well. “I’m quite comfortable,” he told her, making no move to accept the invitation. “Why not sit down and finish your nails?”
