Let's Choose Executors, page 19
“Oh, very well.” She wasn’t quite pleased to find him unimpressed by the vision she presented, but the suggestion was obviously a good one as she had already painted the nails on her right hand a startling vermilion, but the left remained unadorned. She seated herself, therefore, and picked up the bottle of varnish. Her eyes were on her visitor appraisingly as he went back to his chair again. “’Have you talked to Fran Gifford?” she asked.
“Not since I saw you.”
“Then, why—?”
“You didn’t explain very well what you wanted. I hope you’ll tell me a little more.”
“When you’ve seen her . . . p’raps I will.”
“Now,” he insisted. Oddly, his quiet tone seemed to anger her.
“I have my rights,” she told him. “Even if it wasn’t all done legal.”
“Your right . . . to what?”
“Money.” The china-blue eyes were calculating, the charming expression for the moment almost ugly. Or was that just an illusion? He ought to remember . . . and as though she read his thought she added primly: “I’m not thinking of myself, you know.”
“Why should Miss Gifford give you money?”
“Because that’s why the old woman left it to her. Isn’t it obvious?”
“I’m afraid I’m very dull,” he apologised.
“Are you?” The anger had given way to a hint of dryness; so that he had yet another view of her, and wondered, with as much sympathy as curiosity, what she had been like before.
“I expect if you explained to me—” he said, and smiled at her. “For instance, how did you know about Mrs. Randall’s will?”
The painting of her thumbnail seemed to be a tricky business, requiring concentration. “I’m not telling you anything, not until you’ve talked to Fran.”
“You said you wanted to see her acquitted,” he pointed out.
“So I do. But I can’t help you about that.”
“How do you know?”
“I . . . well, I do know, that’s all.” She held out her hand to consider the effect of the varnish, and then looked up at him briefly with a mocking little smile. “A smart lawyer can get anyone off . . . that’s what they’re saying.”
“A smarter man than I am, then,” said Antony ruefully, disliking the word as he repeated it. “Besides, it isn’t true.”
“Isn’t it?” She sounded indifferent. “Well, I don’t know anything about the murder, though I wouldn’t have thought it of Fran Gifford. But maybe she did us both a good turn.”
“You understand there’s no question of her inheriting, if she’s found guilty?”
“Of course I do.” She was glad to air her knowledge. “And it wouldn’t do Hugo any good either . . . not necessarily. The court would have to decide.” She found his eyes fixed on her, and gave a self-conscious laugh. “But you won’t let it happen, will you?”
It was an effort to stay where he was, in the chair by the kitchen table; to answer her casually. As always when anything disturbed him, he wanted to get up and walk restlessly about the room. “I may have no choice,” he said. Perhaps it was something in his tone that moved her to say, inconsequently:
“I was surprised you decided to stay.”
“Well . . . as I did . . . wouldn’t it be as well to answer my questions?” he said. “You can let me worry about whether you’re helping or not.”
She painted the nail of her little finger before she replied. “Would it be right,” she asked primly, “to help you to—to defeat the ends of justice?”
It wasn’t any use protesting at her assumption of Fran’s guilt. “There’s always the money,” he reminded her cynically.
The little brush went back into the bottle. “It would depend, wouldn’t it, on what you wanted to ask me?”
“For one thing, how did you know about the will?”
“She told me, of course.”
“She . . . Fran?” Nancy shook her head sharply.
“Mrs. Randall, then?” The incredulity in his tone made her smile a little. “When?”
“The second time she came here.” There was a pause while she worked it out. “The Friday, that was . . . the day after Boxing Day.”
“Did Nell . . . did Miss Randall bring her?” He was frowning over the information.
“She came in a taxi, both times. It waited for her. She didn’t stay long.”
“The first time—?”
“On Christmas Eve.”
“Why did she come?”
“That’s something else, isn’t it?”
“I’ve been told about your . . . about the baby.”
Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Then let’s say, she wanted to see her great-grandson.”
“Was that why she came?”
“In a way. She asked me if it was true.”
“Did she tell you who had given her the information?”
“I’ve wondered that myself.”
“And when you told her—?”
“She was a proper old cat, you know, but I’ll say this for her, she didn’t see it all one-sided. She said Hugo’d have to marry me. Well, I had to laugh.”
“Would you have agreed?”
“Why should I? A father for Jimmy . . . what do I care? Not that he isn’t a good kid,” she added, with sudden earnestness. “He’s always like this, not a sound out of him once he’s had his feed. No trouble.”
“For your own sake—” said Antony, a little helplessly.
“I’m damned anyway, as far as Chedcombe is concerned.”
“But at the time . . . when first you knew the baby was coming?”
“I don’t say that wasn’t different. Hugo wasn’t best pleased, but he’s been good to me.”
“If he’d asked you then, would you have accepted him?”
“Well, I might . . . if he’d asked me!” She grinned as she spoke.
“Marriage would give you a home, a certain position―”
“That’s what you think. Besides—” She glanced up at the clock again.
“You’ve other fish to fry,” said Antony crudely.
“What if I have?” Her eyes met his and she laughed. “I like older men,” she told him. Her look was friendly and appraising; he hoped he was right in believing it also impersonal.
“Did you tell Mrs. Randall you weren’t interested in her proposal?” he asked.
“What do you take me for? I told her to see what Hugo had to say.”
“And she came back a second time to tell you?”
“That’s right.” Again there was the considering look; he had the feeling that every word was deliberately chosen. “So she said she was ashamed of Hugo, but she’d see we were looked after, Jimmy and me.”
“By Fran Gifford?”
“She didn’t want any scandal.” There was a hardness in her tone now. “That’s a laugh, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it was natural that she didn’t want to start any gossip about her own family.”
“You can’t stop it,” said Nancy. “Not in a place like this. And, of course, she didn’t think she was going to die. But I agree she didn’t want this story to get about. She kept talking about ‘iniquity’ . . . which isn’t a nice word,” she added, suddenly prim again. “And she said it ought to be ‘published abroad’,” she went on, with an obvious effort of recollection. “Well, I was glad enough she decided not to.”
“And now?”
“We get by.” She glanced at the clock again, as though the words were a reminder, and seemed only partially reassured by what she saw. “Hugo does what he can . . . well, why shouldn’t he? And then there’s Fran, if you get her off.”
“Did you speak to her about it, when you heard of Mrs. Randall’s death?”
“I never had the chance, they arrested her too quick. So that’s why I thought I’d talk to you.”
“I see.” He got up as he spoke, and stood looking down at her. “Just one more thing, Miss Selkirk. It wasn’t by any chance you who told Mrs. Randall—?”
“No, I didn’t!” she said quickly.
“Are you sure of that?”
“Quite, quite sure. He’d already threatened—”
“What, Miss Selkirk?” he prompted as she hesitated.
“To stop supplies if . . . if I didn’t do as he said.” She paused again, and then added with a touch of defiance: “Keep quiet about it, I mean.”
“I see.” He didn’t think it was any use persisting. “Have you known Hugo Randall long?”
“I was at school with Marian, a year ahead of her.” She got up in her turn, and looked at him seriously. “I’ve got Jimmy to think of,” she said. “You’ll see Fran, won’t you, and tell me what she says.”
“I’ll see her.”
“I mean, I’ve done my best for you, haven’t I? Even,” she added, guessing shrewdly, “if it isn’t what you wanted to hear.”
“You said you’d like to help Fran,” he said, on an impulse. “If I asked you to give evidence for the defence—”
“Don’t try it! Not if you don’t want me to deny every word.” Her charm was dimmed again for a moment; for the first time he thought that perhaps she was afraid. But he was more puzzled by her reaction than disconcerted by it. “Perjury, Miss Selkirk,” he reminded her.
“You couldn’t prove it,” said Nancy, laughing again. But she showed some alacrity in following him to the door.
4
The evening was well advanced by the time he had eaten, but some obscure sense of duty impelled him to telephone Tommy Davenant, and later—on being told that the solicitor was not at home that evening—Vera Langhorne. “There are things,” he said when he got through to her, “that we ought to discuss.”
“Would you like to come round here?”
“If I may.” He was surprised to find that the suggestion pleased him. “Have you any Mozart?”
“Mozart? Oh, records! Yes, of course.”
“Something soothing,” he said. “I’m feeling battered.” She had not interpreted his request too literally, and one of the Horn Concertos greeted him when he arrived. “Exactly right,” he told her gratefully.
“Want you to stay awake,” she said.
The fire must have been made up after he telephoned, the flames were just beginning to struggle through the fresh coal. Again the chair she indicated to him was pulled hospitably close to the hearth; she pushed her own chair farther back as she sat down.
“You said, something to discuss,” She was eyeing him in her earnest, intent way. “Glad you weren’t hurt, last night,” she added.
“It’s about that,” he said. “Well, it arises from that episode.” He sat looking down at the fire, and thought perhaps he should have asked for something more harsh in the way of background music, something he didn’t mind talking through. But the trouble was, of course, he didn’t want to tell her. “Halford took a dim view,” he said, postponing the moment.
“Not surprising, really.”
“No . . . well . . . he offered to consider our application to have the trial transferred.”
“What you wanted, isn’t it?” she asked gruffly.
“I said so, didn’t I?” Somehow he must explain his reluctance, as much to himself as to her. “It’s all this damned gossip . . . no, more than that, the antagonism,” he said.
“But that’s why—”
“Yes, I know. I know what I said. And you told me in the beginning, ‘she isn’t getting a fair deal.”
“Well, now’s your chance. What’s the matter?” she asked him impatiently.
The little room didn’t provide much scope for prowling, but this time he yielded to his impulse to get up and move about. “I suppose I want to ram it down their throats,” he said. “Prove she’s innocent, and force them to believe her.” He turned quickly, and found that she was following him, thoughtfully, with her eyes. “Don’t you see?” he demanded. “Nothing else is really good enough.”
“All very fine. Can you do it?”
“No . . . no!” Four paces from window to sideboard; he took them angrily. “At this stage I don’t even see my way to an acquittal for lack of evidence.”
“Know my view; what we ought to try for.”
“But what sort of a life—?” He halted abruptly, and said with a change of tone: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Know how you feel. All the same, change her name, go away somewhere.”
“Oh, hell!” said Antony, with feeling, and strode back to the window again. Miss Langhorne pushed herself up out of her chair, and said as she did so:
“Get the coffee.” She turned in the doorway to smile at him. “Give Mozart a chance,” she recommended.
When she came back, Maitland had returned to his place by the fire and was staring moodily into the flames. She did not attempt to speak until the coffee was poured, and then she said, with an indirectness that was completely out of character: “Suppose you’ve been studying the evidence again.”
“I’ve been doing more than that,” he admitted. “First I went to Ravenscroft—”
“Without Tommy?” She didn’t try to hide her disapproval.
“If you had rather an embarrassing disclosure to make, Miss Langhorne—supposing such a thing to be possible—would you rather talk to one person, or two?”
“See your point,” she told him, after a moment. “Did it help?”
“That’s the trouble, it didn’t. In fact, I put in a very bad afternoon. Hugo Randall was by far the most promising suspect.”
“Well?”
“He’s been frank with me, up to a point. I don’t see my way.”
“You think he’s innocent?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to be sure of his guilt before I attacked him in court.”
“I see,” she said doubtfully.
“You ought to be g-glad,” he snapped, suddenly irritable again. “We’ll throw in our hand, and ask for a change of scene; and then we’ll play for s-safety. Reasonable d-doubt!” he added violently. It sounded like an imprecation.
“Sorry you feel like that,” said Vera mildly. Antony picked up his cup.
“I’m not behaving very well, am I?”
“Disappointed. Very understandable,” she told him.
“I don’t even know where I am with young Mark,” he said discontentedly.
“You didn’t talk to him as well!”
“Only about matters which I think can properly be regarded as my own concern,” said Antony precisely. “He admits the first two anonymous messages, but not the green paint. And denies the shooting too.”
“Not surprised.”
“He could have done it. I think . . . oh, I think most likely he did. As for Hugo . . . how can I know whether the fellow’s being honest, or extraordinarily subtle?” he demanded. And drank some of his coffee, and put down the cup with care.
“Would it help?”
“Yes, of course. I suppose I’d better tell you—” He gave her the gist of his talk with Hugo, and found her eyeing him thoughtfully when he finished. “So then,” he said, “I went to see the girl.”
“Unwise of you.”
“Yes, wasn’t it?” he agreed sourly.
“Have you told Tommy?”
“Not yet, he’s out. I’ll have to see Fran Gifford, of course.”
“What will you tell her?”
“I don’t know. We’d better make it Monday morning, I’ll have to decide by then what to do about Halford’s offer.”
“I’ll be free tomorrow,” she told him, “any time you need me.”
“Thank you. I ought to try to tell you, Miss Langhorne, how much I appreciate―”
“Have some more coffee?”
“—your generous attitude about all this.”
“Want to do the best for the girl,” she said, accepting his empty cup. “Don’t know what that is, myself.”
“Do you think I do?”
She didn’t try to answer that. “One thing I ought to tell you . . . have you been doing any shopping while you’ve been in Chedcombe?”
“No. Nothing at all. I’ve had no need.”
“Good thing, perhaps. Not a nice atmosphere. Hostile.”
“You mean, you’ve been having difficulty?”
“Lack of cooperation. Can’t mistake it. Makes things awkward.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry—”
“Doesn’t matter. Only thought, anything else happens, could hardly refuse Halford’s offer.” She paused, looking at him questioningly. “Won’t do to be disappointed,” she told him. “At least . . . done your best.”
“Don’t you think that’s worse than anything . . . to do your best, and fail?”
She seemed to be giving that serious thought. “Not really,” she said at last.
“Well, I just wish I knew more about Alice Randall.”
“What good would that do?”
“I’ve got a feeling that if I understood her I’d have the key to the whole affair.” He looked up again to find her eyes fixed on him consideringly, and added with renewed irritation: “I’m not saying there’s any logic about that.”
“Don’t see it, I’m afraid. I still think Hugo Randall—”
“I know you do, and I can’t say you’re wrong. What did you think of Byron’s evidence?”
“What we expected . . . wasn’t it?”
“Yes, of course. All according to proof. But what happened that day to upset Mrs. Randall, that’s what I’d like to know?”
“Nice girl, Elsie Barber, but probably imagined it.”
“I wonder.” Both look and voice were vague, and she eyed him with growing exasperation.
