Let's Choose Executors, page 20
“Don’t suppose Fred Byron could tell you anyway. All there in his statement, he only saw her for a moment alone.”
“So he did.” He paused, and then said in an odd voice, “There’s another question, you know; who told the old lady about Nancy Selkirk?”
“Can’t see what good it would do us to know,” said Vera flatly. “Probably Walter, don’t you think?”
“He might have guessed where Hugo’s money was going. I don’t see how he could have known.”
“If he was interested enough to make a few inquiries—”
“I suppose he might have found out. Miss Langhorne . . . what’s his reputation?”
“A cautious man,” said Vera slowly. “That’s what they say.”
“Would you agree with the estimate?”
“I’d say he was a frustrated gossip. Expect that means he has a careful disposition, doesn’t it?”
“He inherits quite a considerable sum of money under his mother’s will.”
“So does your friend, Nell Randall,” Vera pointed out, suddenly tart.
“That’s very true,” said Antony; and grinned at her. “You see, I was wondering, if neither Fran nor Hugo is guilty, why was the old lady killed just then?”
“What the jury must be wondering.”
“I realise that. But does it occur to you that someone intended Hugo to be blamed, someone deliberately engineered his quarrel with his grandmother by telling her about Nancy Selkirk? It could have been someone who thought, if she went so far as to cut him out of her will, that they’d benefit.”
“Then Fran Gifford—”
“That was just an accident. It couldn’t have been foreseen that Alice would leave her all that money or ask her to Ravenscroft that night.”
“I see.” She was staring at him blankly. “If those two are innocent,” she said.
The concerto was finished. He stayed until the coffee pot was empty and the other side of the record had been played, but neither of them referred again to Alice Randall’s murder. Antony walked back to the George in a painful state of indecision, and found that Tommy Davenant had telephoned twice in his absence.
It seemed a little late, by then, to return the call; but not too late, perhaps, to have a word with Jenny. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out comfortably on the bed while he waited for the connection, and wondered idly how his patient guardian was spending the night, and whether the management appreciated having a bobby on the premises. If he knew anything about it.
Jenny’s greeting was drowned by the sound of hammering. “What on earth . . . I can’t hear you,” he said, raising his voice.
“I said . . . it is you, Antony? You’re all right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. Just a minute.” She must have turned her head, because he couldn’t hear her next remark, but the hammering stopped abruptly. “There!” she said. Antony felt a sudden, quite disproportionate gratitude for the fact that she wasn’t going to elaborate on her anxiety.
“Entertaining?” he inquired, with interest.
“Not exactly a party. Roger’s here, and Meg’s coming straight from the theatre.”
“Well, he doesn’t have to break up the furniture, does he?”
“You ought to be grateful,” said Jenny severely. And then, “I suppose Uncle Nick told you I was having a little difficulty.
“I don’t think you were really trying, love. A little more, and Gibbs might have gone for good.”
“It does seem a waste, doesn’t it? But the shelves look marvellous now, darling. since Roger got at them,” she added conscientiously. “Quite straight!”
“So I should hope.”
“Well, it isn’t really so easy. And he mended the vacuum cleaner.”
“What was wrong with that?”
“It didn’t seem to like wood shavings.”
“Oh, lord!”
“You don’t seem to appreciate—”
“Give him a medal,” Antony advised. “And if any of the neighbours issue a summons for noise abatement—”
“Do you think they might?”
“Bound to, I should think. The fine will probably be enormous, and if you’ve spent all our money on the most expensive wood you could find—”
“Not quite all, Antony. And it won’t need painting,” she added, in an encouraging tone. “By the time you get home . . . when will that be?”
“It could be Monday. Jenny love, I hope it won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like admitting defeat.”
“Uncle Nick told me the case might be transferred, but surely—”
“And I don’t like playing for safety. But I suppose I must.” He sounded tired now; it didn’t occur to him that he hadn’t explained the nature of his problem. Jenny said: “You must do what you think best,” and there was a flatness in her tone that alerted him.
“No danger, love. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I was thinking of my client . . . I hate lost causes,” he said; and was grateful again that she settled herself to listen to his troubles without interruption, and without any attempt at reassurance.
5
When he got to bed he slept so deeply that it seemed no more than five minutes could have passed before he was awakened by the shrilling of the telephone. As he lifted the receiver he still wasn’t quite sure where he was, and he couldn’t place the woman’s voice that greeted him, speaking far too fast and breathless with agitation.
“Mr. Maitland? I’m sorry. I’m sorry to wake you. He groped for the light switch, blinked a little in the sudden illumination, and managed to focus on the dial of his watch. Ten to three . . . she might well apologise . . . “It doesn’t matter,” he said, not meaning it. “Who—?”
“Nell Randall. I wouldn’t have disturbed you, only Hugo said I should tell you; and then I thought if I waited till morning, someone else might talk to you first.”
He was wide awake now, but no less confused than he had been in the first moments of consciousness. He said, very slowly and distinctly, as though he were afraid she couldn’t hear him: “Is Hugo there? Let me talk to him.”
“But you can’t! That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Her voice rose on the words to something like a wail. “The police came and took him away with them. They say that girl Nancy Selkirk . . . they say she’s been murdered.”
SUNDAY, 2nd FEBRUARY
The thought went through his mind with startling irrelevance that he had been right in this, at least; Nell had known, or suspected, something of the liaison. The trouble was, he didn’t want to accept what she was telling him, either the fact of Nancy’s death or the consequences. He heard his own voice, sharper than he had intended:
“Do you mean he’s been arrested?”
“Well, I suppose—” The question seemed to confuse her.
“Is his solicitor with him?’’
“Oh, yes, I called Fred . . . Mr. Byron. He was going straight to the police station.”
“And what about you? Is there someone—?”
“Tommy’s here. We’ll be all right.”
He wondered briefly why Davenant hadn’t done the telephoning. “Miss Randall, why did Hugo ask you to call me?” he asked.
“I really don’t know.” She was calmer now, but she sounded bewildered. “I think perhaps it was the—the murder he wanted you to know about, not what had happened to him.”
“I see.” That made a sort of sense, at least. “You mustn’t upset yourself, you know.”
“I can’t,” she said drearily. “There’s so much to do. And I’m worried about the twins.”
“If you’d just stop thinking of them as children.”
“That’s what Tommy says. He’s here, Mr. Maitland; would you like a word with him?”
“Thank you.” A moment later he heard Davenant’s voice.
“This is a bad business, Maitland.”
Antony agreed. He didn’t envy the other man his role of family friend. “Have they made an arrest?” he asked. “Not yet. Camden cautioned him, as far as I can make out from what Nell says.”
“Do you know any details?”
“Only that she was strangled.”
“I see.”
“I don’t understand anything,” Davenant complained.
“Nor I. When can I see you?”
“This afternoon. Say, three o’clock. Shall I come to the hotel?”
“Yes, do. There’s a good deal to talk about.”
“I’m sorry we missed each other last night. I’d only gone round to the pub, but I forgot to tell my housekeeper where I’d be.”
“It doesn’t matter. Shall I get hold of Miss Langhorne, or will you?”
“Do you mind? I may be tied up here.”
“How good are you at milking?”
Davenant laughed, a queer ghostly sound. “That’s the least of my worries. You forget Nell was a landgirl.” But he sounded faintly discontented as he added: “I’m sorry you’ve been disturbed, you know, but nothing would satisfy her—” His voice grew faint, as though he were looking over his shoulder, and then he added more strongly: “I can’t imagine what interest Hugo thinks his amours are to you.”
2
Detective Inspector Camden was waiting for him when he came out into the hall after breakfast, and Maitland took him upstairs with him. The bed was still unmade, and the room rather depressingly untidy, but at least they could be private here. He waved the Inspector to the armchair near the window, and dragged forward the stool from in front of the dressing table.
“If I may say so, sir, you don’t seem very surprised to see me.”
“I’m not, of course.” It had taken him a minute or two downstairs to recognise the dark-haired, shortish man he had seen giving evidence; now he thought he should have done so straightaway, if only because of Camden’s extreme impassivity. “Nothing stays secret in Chedcombe for long; and in any case your man will have told you I visited Nancy Selkirk yesterday.”
“That, I suppose, would be why you didn’t think of informing me.”
“Precisely. I was sure you’d be here soon enough.”
“Why did you visit her, sir?”
“You know why I’m in Chedcombe, Inspector. I hoped she might have some information that would help Frances Gifford’s defence.”
Camden frowned over this. “You meant to call her as a witness?”
“I believe there was no question of that.”
To his surprise, the detective made no attempt to press him. “Let’s see, then, we have the exact time of your visit. Did you go there by appointment?”
“No, I took a chance on finding her.” He hesitated before he added: “She was in the kitchen, manicuring her nails.”
“Was anyone else present?”
“Not in the room . . . not in the house, so far as I know. Except that she implied her baby was asleep upstairs.”
“Would you say there was anything abnormal in her manner?”
“As a stranger, I’m hardly qualified to judge that. She seemed—” He paused, trying to remember precisely. “She seemed excited, perhaps a little apprehensive. And though she didn’t mention the fact I concluded she had an appointment, because she kept looking at the clock.”
“A date?”
“She left me for a while, to finish dressing. I should certainly say she was dressed for a date.” He hesitated again; Camden’s expression was not encouraging. “I was told she was strangled. Where was she found?”
“In the sitting room at her home, when her mother came in from the pictures at ten-thirty.”
“Then she couldn’t have been meaning to go out. Unless she had a baby-sitter.”
“That seems a reasonable assumption, sir,” said the Inspector unemotionally. “Now, you tell me there was some sort of connection between Nancy Selkirk and the Gifford case.”
“I told you nothing of the kind.”
“You thought there might be a connection,” Camden corrected himself smoothly. “Do you know, Mr. Maitland, I find that very interesting.”
“Is Hugo Randall under arrest?”
There was a blankness about the Inspector’s gaze . . . a bovine look, that was a better description. “Can you think of any reason why I should answer your questions, Mr. Maitland?”
“I can’t think of any reason for not telling me that. It’ll be common knowledge soon enough.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Camden sighed. “He has been charged. And as a rider to that, I hope you’ll agree with me that you stand in no further need of police protection.”
“It wasn’t my idea in the first place, Inspector.”
“So I gathered,” said Camden dryly. “Not that there won’t be extra patrols in the town; there was another paint job done last night.”
“Another? Where?”
“On the Shire Hall. The same green paint, Inspector Arkwright says. Would that be contempt of court, sir?” It was impossible to tell whether the question was intended humorously or not.
Antony said absently: “I shouldn’t wonder.” He was thinking that Mr. Justice Halford’s sense of propriety was about to be still further outraged. “What did it say?”
“Whores hang’,’ said Camden in a dead voice.
Antony blinked at him. “A singularly inaccurate statement, in view of the Homicide Act,” he remarked, after a moment. “Look here, Inspector, will you tell me one other thing? It’s important, really it is.”
“Well, Mr. Maitland, it rather depends on your question.”
“Did Mrs. Selkirk tell you Alice Randall had visited her daughter?”
“She did.” There was a pause. “On Christmas Eve,” he added, as though with reluctance. “Why do you ask?”
“Nancy told me the old lady went twice to Carlton Crescent. I had a feeling she wasn’t telling me the truth.”
“When was the second occasion?”
“The 27th December.”
Camden took his time to think this out. “According to Mrs. Selkirk’s statement, that’s impossible. Nancy was in bed with a cold from Boxing Day to the following Sunday . . . the 29th. And as a consequence, her mother didn’t go out at all.”
“I see.”
“Is it important?”
“I think it may be,” said Antony. “Did you ever ask Miss Randall about the day she drove her mother into Chedcombe to keep her appointment with Byron?”
Camden’s expression became even more wooden. “Yes, of course.” He made the admission as cautiously as though it might incriminate him.
“I was wondering why she went to the Bank when she’d cashed a check on Market Day, as usual.”
“You could have asked Miss Randall that in court.”
“I could have done if I’d thought of it in time.”
“Well, as far as I recall it was to collect a letter that had been addressed to her there; to the old lady, I mean. It didn’t seem important enough to include in Miss Randall’s statement, and in any case,” the Inspector added shrewdly, “she was only there a moment. not long enough to have had a talk with Walter Randall, shall we say?”
“No, I see,” said Antony, and sighed.
“If you’ve nothing else to ask me, Mr. Maitland—” Camden sounded dissatisfied, but he wasn’t in any hurry to press his questions. It occurred to Antony that he must be very sure of his ground. “We’ll have to have a formal statement, you know; and your fingerprints, of course, for comparison.”
“Any time you like, Inspector.”
“My shorthand writer’s gone off duty. Will this afternoon suit you?”
“I’ve a conference at three o’clock,”
“At two, then? At the police station.” He stopped in the doorway and said, with a slight twitching of his lips that might have been meant for a smile: “It seems it won’t take very long, Mr. Maitland. You can’t expect me to be too pleased about that.”
It had been six o’clock before Antony fell asleep again after his talk with Nell Randall, but he couldn’t say he felt much wiser for his cogitations. The only thing he was sure about was that he couldn’t stay in his room now, alone with his thoughts; he was rummaging in the wardrobe for sweater and scarf when the telephone rang. This time it was a man’s voice, deep, pleasant, vaguely familiar. “Frederick Byron, Maitland. Could I see you?”
“Why, yes.” It was ridiculous to feel startled, but it was the last thing he’d been expecting.
“It’s about what happened last night. You’ve heard, of course?”
“An outline only.”
“Shall I come to the hotel?”
“If you like; but I expect the chambermaid’s wishing me out of the way.”
“Then make it my office. In twenty minutes’ time.” A decisive man, thought Maitland, as the line went dead; in his own undecided mood he found this depressing.
He arrived at the office across the square just as a black Vauxhall drew up in the parking space on the cobbles. Frederick Byron was less formally dressed today, though still astonishingly neat. He said very little until they had walked up through the quiet desolation of the empty house to his office on the first floor; a big room overlooking the Market Square, with comfortable, shabby furnishings.
“I’m afraid this must seem rather odd to you.” He was shrugging out of his overcoat as he spoke. “Take the chair by the hearth, my dear fellow. I’ll just put a match to the fire, then we can be comfortable.”
Maitland did as he was told. “I’m hoping for enlightenment,” he said.
“It might save time if you tell me what you’ve heard.” Byron straightened himself and watched a little tongue of flame flicker up out of the nest of coal. Then he sat down and eyed his companion expectantly; but in spite of his easy manner, he did not look relaxed.
