Dead Man's Folly (10 page)

“Nonsense,” said Miss Brewis. “It suits Lady Stubbs now and then to play the helpless nitwit if she doesn't want to do anything. It takes her husband in, I dare say, but it doesn't take
me
in!”

“You don't like her very much, Miss Brewis?” Bland sounded gently interested.

Miss Brewis' lips closed in a thin line.

“It's not my business either to like or dislike her,” she said.

The door burst open and Sir George came in.

“Look here,” he said violently, “you've got to do something. Where's Hattie? You've got to find Hattie. What the hell's going on round here I don't know. This confounded fête—some ruddy homicidal maniac's got in here, paying his half crown and looking like everyone else, spending his afternoon going round murdering people. That's what it looks like to me.”

“I don't think we need take such an exaggerated view as that, Sir George.”

“It's all very well for you sitting there behind the table, writing things down. What I want is my wife.”

“I'm having the grounds searched, Sir George.”

“Why did nobody tell me she'd disappeared? She's been missing a couple of hours now, it seems. I thought it was odd that she didn't turn up to judge the Children's Fancy Dress stuff, but nobody told me she'd really gone.”

“Nobody knew,” said the inspector.

“Well, someone ought to've known. Somebody ought to have noticed.”

He turned on Miss Brewis.

“You ought to have known, Amanda, you were keeping an eye on things.”

“I can't be everywhere,” said Miss Brewis. She sounded suddenly almost tearful. “I've got so much to see to. If Lady Stubbs chose to wander away—”

“Wander away? Why should she wander away? She'd no reason to wander away unless she wanted to avoid that dago fellow.”

Bland seized his opportunity.

“There is something I want to ask you,” he said. “Did your wife receive a letter from Mr. de Sousa some three weeks ago, telling her he was coming to this country?”

Sir George looked astonished.

“No, of course she didn't.”

“You're sure of that?”

“Oh, quite sure. Hattie would have told me. Why, she was thoroughly startled and upset when she got his letter this morning. It more or less knocked her out. She was lying down most of the morning with a headache.”

“What did she say to you privately about her cousin's visit? Why did she dread seeing him so much?”

Sir George looked rather embarrassed.

“Blessed if I really know,” he said. “She just kept saying that he was wicked.”

“Wicked? In what way?”

“She wasn't very articulate about it. Just went on rather like a child saying that he was a wicked man. Bad; and that she wished he wasn't coming here. She said he'd done bad things.”

“Done bad things? When?”

“Oh, long ago. I should imagine this Etienne de Sousa was the black sheep of the family and that Hattie picked up odds and ends about him during her childhood without understanding them very well. And as a result she's got a sort of horror of him. I thought it was just a childish hangover myself. My wife
is
rather childish sometimes. Has likes and dislikes, but can't explain them.”

“You are sure she did not particularize in any way, Sir George?”

Sir George looked uneasy.

“I wouldn't want you to go by—er—what she said.”

“Then she did say something?”

“All right. I'll let you have it. What she said was—and she said it several times—‘
He kills people.
'”

I

“H
e kills people,” Inspector Bland repeated.

“I don't think you ought to take it too seriously,” said Sir George. “She kept repeating it and saying, ‘He kills people,' but she couldn't tell me who he killed or when or why. I thought myself it was just some queer, childlike memory—trouble with the natives—something like that.”

“You say she couldn't tell you anything definite—do you mean
couldn't,
Sir George—or might it have been
wouldn't?
”

“I don't think…” He broke off. “I don't know. You've muddled me. As I say, I didn't take any of it seriously. I thought perhaps this cousin had teased her a bit when she was a kid—something of that kind. It's difficult to explain to you because you don't know my wife. I am devoted to her, but half the time I don't listen to what she says because it just doesn't make sense. Anyway, this de Sousa fellow couldn't have had anything to do with all this—don't tell me he lands here off a yacht and goes straight away through
the woods and kills a wretched Girl Guide in a boathouse! Why should he?”

“I'm not suggesting that anything like that happened,” said Inspector Bland, “but you must realize, Sir George, that in looking for the murderer of Marlene Tucker the field is a more restricted one than one might think at first.”

“Restricted!” Sir George stared. “You've got the whole ruddy fête to choose from, haven't you? Two hundred—three hundred—people? Any one of 'em might have done it.”

“Yes, I thought so at first, but from what I've learnt now that's hardly so. The boathouse door has a Yale lock. Nobody could come in from outside without a key.”

“Well, there were three keys.”

“Exactly. One key was the final clue in this Murder Hunt. It is still concealed in the hydrangea walk at the very top of the garden. The second key was in the possession of Mrs. Oliver, the organizer of the Murder Hunt. Where is the third key, Sir George?”

“It ought to be in the drawer of that desk where you're sitting. No, the right-hand one with a lot of the other estate duplicates.”

He came over and rummaged in the drawer.

“Yes. Here it is all right.”

“Then you see,” said Inspector Bland, “what that means? The only people who could have got into the boathouse were first, the person who had completed the Murder Hunt and found the key (which as far as we know, did not happen). Second, Mrs. Oliver or some member of the household to whom she may have lent her key, and, third, someone
whom Marlene herself admitted to the room.
”

“Well, that latter point covers pretty well everyone, doesn't it?”

“Very far from it,” said Inspector Bland. “If I understand the
arrangement of this Murder Hunt correctly, when the girl heard anyone approaching the door she was to lie down and enact the part of the Victim, and wait to be discovered by the person who had found the last clue—the key. Therefore, as you must see for yourself, the only people whom she would have admitted, had they called to her from outside and asked her to do so,
were the people who had actually arranged the Murder Hunt.
Any inmate, that is, of this house—that is to say, yourself, Lady Stubbs, Miss Brewis, Mrs. Oliver—possibly M. Poirot whom I believe she had met this morning. Who else, Sir George?”

Sir George considered for a moment or two.

“The Legges, of course,” he said. “Alec and Sally Legge. They've been in it from the start. And Michael Weyman, he's an architect staying here in the house to design a tennis pavilion. And Warburton, the Mastertons—oh, and Mrs. Folliat of course.”

“That is all—nobody else?”

“That's the lot.”

“So you see, Sir George, it is not a very wide field.”

Sir George's face went scarlet.

“I think you're talking nonsense—absolute nonsense! Are you suggesting—what you are suggesting?”

“I'm only suggesting,” said Inspector Bland, “that there's a great deal we don't know as yet. It's possible, for instance, that Marlene, for some reason, came
out
of the boathouse. She may even have been strangled somewhere else, and her body brought back and arranged on the floor. But even if so, whoever arranged her was again someone who was thoroughly cognisant with all the details of the Murder Hunt. We always come back to that.” He added in a
slightly changed voice, “I can assure you, Sir George, that we're doing all we can to find Lady Stubbs. In the meantime I'd like to have a word with Mr. and Mrs. Alec Legge and Mr. Michael Weyman.”

“Amanda.”

“I'll see what I can do about it, Inspector,” said Miss Brewis. “I expect Mrs. Legge is still telling fortunes in the tent. A lot of people have come in with the half-price admission since five o'clock, and all the sideshows are busy. I can probably get hold of Mr. Legge or Mr. Weyman for you—whichever you want to see first.”

“It doesn't matter in what order I see them,” said Inspector Bland.

Miss Brewis nodded and left the room. Sir George followed her, his voice rising plaintively.

“Look here, Amanda, you've got to….”

Inspector Bland realized that Sir George depended a great deal upon the efficient Miss Brewis. Indeed, at this moment, Bland found the master of the house rather like a small boy.

Whilst waiting, Inspector Bland picked up the telephone, demanded to be put through to the police station at Helmmouth and made certain arrangements with them concerning the yacht
Espérance.

“You realize, I suppose,” he said to Hoskins, who was obviously quite incapable of realizing anything of the sort, “that there's just one perfectly possible place where this damn' woman might be—and that's on board de Sousa's yacht?”

“How d'you make that out, sir?”

“Well, the woman has not been seen to leave by any of the usual exits, she's togged up in a way that makes it unlikely that she's
legging it through the fields or woods, but it
is
just possible that she met de Sousa by appointment down at the boathouse and that he took her by launch to the yacht, returning to the fête afterwards.”

“And why would he do that, sir?” demanded Hoskins, puzzled.

“I've no idea,” said the inspector, “and it's very unlikely that he did. But it's a
possibility.
And if she
is
on the
Espérance,
I'll see to it that she won't get off there without being observed.”

“But if her fair hated the sight of him…” Hoskins dropped into the vernacular.

“All we know is that she
said
she did. Women,” said the inspector sententiously, “tell a lot of lies. Always remember that, Hoskins.”

“Aah,” said Constable Hoskins appreciatively.

II

Further conversation was brought to an end as the door opened and a tall vague-looking young man entered. He was wearing a neat grey flannel suit, but his shirt collar was crumpled and his tie askew and his hair stood up on end in an unruly fashion.

“Mr. Alec Legge?” said the inspector, looking up.

“No,” said the young man, “I'm Michael Weyman. You asked for me, I understand.”

“Quite true, sir,” said Inspector Bland. “Won't you take a chair?” He indicated a chair at the opposite side of the table.

“I don't care for sitting,” said Michael Weyman, “I like to stride about. What are all you police doing here anyway? What's happened?”

Inspector Bland looked at him in surprise.

“Didn't Sir George inform you, sir?” he asked.

“Nobody's ‘informed me,' as you put it, of anything. I don't sit in Sir George's pocket all the time. What
has
happened?”

“You're staying in the house, I understand?”

“Of course I'm staying in the house. What's that got to do with it?”

“Simply that I imagined that all the people staying in the house would by now have been informed of this afternoon's tragedy.”

“Tragedy? What tragedy?”

“The girl who was playing the part of the murder victim has been killed.”

“No!” Michael Weyman seemed exuberantly surprised. “Do you mean really killed? No fakery-pokery?”

“I don't know what you mean by fakery-pokery. The girl's dead.”

“How was she killed?”

“Strangled with a piece of cord.”

Michael Weyman gave a whistle.

“Exactly as in the scenario? Well, well, that does give one ideas.” He strode over to the window, turned rapidly about, and said, “So we're all under suspicion, are we? Or was it one of the local boys?”

“We don't see how it could possibly have been one of the local boys, as you put it,” said the inspector.

“No more do I really,” said Michael Weyman. “Well, Inspector, many of my friends call me crazy, but I'm not that kind of crazy. I don't roam around the countryside strangling underdeveloped spotty young women.”

“You are down here, I understand, Mr. Weyman, designing a tennis pavilion for Sir George?”

“A blameless occupation,” said Michael. “Criminally speaking, that is. Architecturally, I'm not so sure. The finished product will probably represent a crime against good taste. But that doesn't interest you, Inspector. What
does
interest you?”

“Well, I should like to know, Mr. Weyman, exactly where you were between quarter past four this afternoon and say five o'clock.”

“How do you tape it down to that—medical evidence?”

“Not entirely, sir. A witness saw the girl alive at a quarter past four.”

“What witness—or mayn't I ask?”

“Miss Brewis. Lady Stubbs asked her to take down a tray of creamy cakes with some fruitade to the girl.”

“Our Hattie asked her that? I don't believe it for a moment.”

“Why don't you believe it, Mr. Weyman?”

“It's not like her. Not the sort of thing she'd think of or bother about. Dear Lady Stubbs' mind revolves entirely round herself.”

“I'm still waiting, Mr. Weyman, for your answer to my question.”

“Where I was between four fifteen and five o'clock? Well, really, Inspector, I can't say offhand. I was about—if you know what I mean.”

“About where?”

“Oh, here and there. I mingled a bit on the lawn, watched the locals amusing themselves, had a word or two with the fluttery film star. Then, when I got sick of it all, I went along to the tennis court and mused over the design for the Pavilion. I also wondered how soon someone would identify the photograph that was the first clue for the Murder Hunt with a section of tennis net.”

“Did someone identify it?”

“Yes, I believe someone did come along, but I wasn't really noticing by then. I got a new idea about the Pavilion—a way of making the best of two worlds. My own and Sir George's.”

“And after that?”

“After that? Well, I strolled around and came back to the house. I strolled down the quay and had a crack with old Merdell, then came back. I can't fix any of the times with any accuracy. I was, as I said, in the first place,
about!
That's all there is to it.”

“Well, Mr. Weyman,” said the inspector briskly, “I expect we can get some confirmation of all this.”

“Merdell can tell you that I talked to him on the quay. But of course that'll be rather later than the time you're interested in. Must have been after five when I got down there. Very unsatisfactory, isn't it, Inspector?”

“We shall be able to narrow it down, I expect, Mr. Weyman.”

The inspector's tone was pleasant, but there was a steely ring in it that did not escape the young architect's notice. He sat down on the arm of a chair.

“Seriously,” he said, “who can have wanted to murder that girl?”

“You've no ideas yourself, Mr. Weyman?”

“Well, offhand, I'd say it was our prolific authoress, the Purple Peril. Have you seen her imperial purple getup? I suggest that she went a bit off her onion and thought how much better the Murder Hunt would be if there was a
real
body. How's that?”

“Is that a serious suggestion, Mr. Weyman?”

“It's the only probability I can think of.”

“There's one other thing I would like to ask you, Mr. Weyman. Did you see Lady Stubbs during the course of the afternoon?”

“Of course I saw her. Who could miss her? Dressed up like a mannequin of Jacques Fath or Christian Dior?”

“When did you see her last?”

“Last? I don't know. Striking an attitude on the lawn about half past three—or a quarter to four perhaps.”

“And you didn't see her after that?”

“No. Why?”

“I wondered—because after four o'clock nobody seems to have seen her. Lady Stubbs has—vanished, Mr. Weyman.”

“Vanished! Our Hattie?”

“That surprises you?”

“Yes, it does rather…What's she up to, I wonder?”

“D'you know Lady Stubbs well, Mr. Weyman?”

“Never met her till I came down here four or five days ago.”

“Have you formed any opinions about her?”

“I should say she knows which side her bread is buttered better than most,” said Michael Weyman dryly. “A very ornamental young woman and knows how to make the most of it.”

“But mentally not very active? Is that right?”

“Depends what you mean by mentally,” said Michael Weyman. “I wouldn't describe her as an intellectual. But if you're thinking that she's not all there, you're wrong.” A tone of bitterness came into his voice. “I'd say she was very much all there. Nobody more so.”

The inspector's eyebrows rose.

“That's not the generally accepted opinion.”