Find the Innocent (16 page)

Jill stiffened with resentment.

“I have no evidence that Veronica was at that lockhouse, Sir Edward.”

“But you tried to obtain evidence that she was at that lockhouse, Miss Aspland? After she had left Renchester?”

He had spoken as if he were counsel scoring a point in cross-examination. Jill bristled.

“Yes. After Veronica had left the hotel, I went to the lockhouse myself,” she said as evenly as if it had been a shopping expedition. “I had a talk with Eddis—negative result. He might have been the one who stayed at the lockhouse—Veronica might have been the girl who was with him. And might not!”

It seemed to her that Maenton was now the one to be surprised. She went on:

“I'm going back to Renchester tonight. Canvey is relieving Eddis at the lockhouse. Tomorrow I shall run over and see if I can get anything out of him.”

“Well—I'm—jiggered!” exclaimed Maenton. “Aren't you rather turning yourself into a one-woman police force?”

“I don't know, and I don't think it matters what you call it. I have—a personal reason—for wishing to know whether Veronica was—”

“I
quite
understand that!” he interrupted. “I make no objection whatever. But—in the event of your obtaining evidence—”

“I'm not running a spite against Veronica. If I do obtain definite evidence—one way or the other—I promise to let you know at once.”

“I vastly appreciate that, Miss Aspland … Thank you for facing the issues so squarely … I think we understand each other … You have helped me more than I can say.” Under cover of the bombardment he was hustling her out of the room, as if he dared not let her say another word.

In the train on the way back to Renchester, thinking over her interview with Maenton, she was inclined to believe that it had been worthwhile. Poor, silly Veronica, treating her own lawyer as if he were a policeman on her trail! A good lawyer, too, by the shape of him, in spite of a touch of the smart alec. All the better—he would frighten Veronica a little and make her obey orders.

Suddenly her contentment was shattered. Her thought scampered over their conversation as if she had forgotten something—as if she had made some ghastly mistake without noticing it at the time. “I quite understand that.” Understand what? That she had a personal reason for wanting to know whether Veronica had been at that lockhouse. “I make no objection whatever.” To what?

To her trying to collect £100,000 as residuary legatee on the cancellation of Veronica's marriage settlement. What else could he mean by saying he had no objection? Besides, there was his tone of voice when he said he knew she “had tried to obtain evidence”.

So Maenton, too, thought that she was out for blood money! She ought to have spotted it at the time and corrected his inference. “You must not think that my purpose is to obtain a huge lump of money for myself. I would be too much of a moral prig to take it in such circumstances.”

In short, there would be no means of correcting that inference drawn by Veronica, by Maenton and by anybody else.

That evening, at the Red Lion, she saw Stranack go to the bar lounge reserved for residents. She remembered that a couple of days ago he had been looking for her, as reported by Eddis. Presently she followed, saw him sitting with his drink alone in a corner. There was no second glass on the table. She bought a drink for herself and strolled over.

He rose stiffly as she approached.

“I heard the other day that you were looking for me, Mr. Stranack … Can't we sit down?”

“You must have heard that from Eddis.”

“Quite right! What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, now—thanks! A chambermaid with whom I am on friendly terms reports that you have quarrelled with Veronica.”

“I'm sure she is a very charming chambermaid, but she is not very accurate. Anyhow, wouldn't it make me more careful?”

He looked at her thoughtfully as if he were in doubt. She met his gaze and it turned into the undressing gaze.

“You're very lovely, Jill,” he said judiciously. “But we're not the slightest use to each other.”

“The lovelier chambermaid got there first?”

“She isn't lovely—she's brainy—the new type.”

“New type of chambermaid—or old type of reporter?” asked Jill.

“Good Lord, I never thought of that!”

“She'll make a sob story out of you. A science man is a romantic figure in the Sunday press. You've got everything. She'll champion your cause for you. And then you'll wish you had come to me instead.”

He was silent. It was true that he had got everything in the way of glamorous manhood, with the advantage of looking masculine instead of merely handsome.

“There would be no point in coming to you. All that's happened since you kicked me out of the sitting room is that you've found I'm not an impostor. For your own reasons you now want to prove that Veronica was with me at the lockhouse. You have no evidence, and I have given every shred of mine to the police. Where do we start?”

“If you could tell me something individual about Veronica—never mind whether it's legal evidence or not—and convince me that she was there with you, I could at least bias the police in your favour.”

“Then I'll tell you something very characteristic. Your friend—as was!—said ‘yes' when a decent woman would have felt bound to say ‘no'.”

“And a decent man wouldn't have asked her!”

“True! I am the sort of man whose company nice women tend to avoid.”

“I suppose I asked for that one!” said Jill, rising. “Perhaps I'll have better luck with Canvey.”

“I doubt it. You don't know an impostor when you see one.”

She dined by herself, still young enough to eat a hearty meal in spite of her anxieties. Stranack's rebuff did not weigh heavily. Eddis, in his own way, had been equally unforthcoming at the start. She could try him again after she had tackled Canvey.

It would be useless, she decided, to attempt any system of asking questions. The police were expert at that kind of thing and had achieved nothing. On such evidence as there was, Eddis was slightly ahead of the others—if only because his own attitude was the most convincing. Stranack was more convincing than Canvey, yet Stranack had the air of a glib liar, whereas Canvey had impressed her more forcibly than Eddis. True that he had repeated the discredited wedding ring story—it was common to all three—but he had done so without destroying the suggestion that he was a trustworthy man.

When she reached the lockhouse on the following morning Canvey was sitting on the lower gate, rod in hand, his eye fixed on his float. He did not move as she approached him. She supposed he was about to land a fish and herself gazed at the float, which revealed no agitation.

“Do you ever catch anything?” she asked.

“That is an irrelevant question,” he answered. “I have no foreknowledge that I am not about to do so.”

“It sounds to me a rather negative sort of pleasure.”

“That is because you assume that I desire to possess a fish. I do not. I am playing with the horrible danger of landing one at any moment.”

“The awful thing is,” she said, “that I believe you.”

“That's a good beginning.” He reeled in. “I hoped you would come out here—I even believed it. If you remember, I prophesied that your friendship for Veronica would not outlast the case. But we shan't get anywhere—I've shot my bolt.”

“Let's try. You might just as well talk to me as play about with that rod.”

He stood the rod against the side of the house.

“You'll ask questions, but I don't think you'll get any sense out of me. I've lost my bearings. My mind has become gramophonic ‘I was at the lockhouse—lockhouse—lockhouse'. Even Curwen winces. You've heard of the murderer's conscience, haven't you?”

“I've read about it, but I doubt if I've ever believed in it. And what could you know about it?”

“The murderer's conscience is his horror at what he has done to himself. He has cut himself off from humanity with a secret he cannot share—turned himself into an exhibit, and in every man's eyes he sees the pharisaical gloat that denies fellowship.”

“But if you haven't committed the murder?”

“You'd be surprised what little difference that makes. Until recently, I was one of three men working together in a close comradeship of reciprocating talents. Now I am one of three terrified scoundrels, each bending his faculties to ensure that the other two shall be convicted instead of himself.”

The words had been hurled at her like stones. She caught one and hurled it back.

“Then do it properly! Bend your own faculties to telling me something about Veronica which I know to be true.”

“I can tell you something about her. Veronica exposed me to myself. I looked into her eyes and saw myself as a superman and her as my fitting mate. Before she left me she held up a mirror—and I saw a voluptuary fooling himself with a puppet in a conventional debauch. A
poupée de luxe
if you like! She showed lots of nice feeling in declining my offer to see her into the car.”

Jill forced herself to remember that Eddis had made a point about her refusal to be seen into the car.

“That's everything about her,” concluded Canvey. “You will be too wise to believe a word of it. You will tell me that I have been talking heady nonsense and you will be quite right.”

“Look at me, please,” said Jill. “Do you see—the ‘pharisaical gloat that denies fellowship'—?”

He looked at her and smiled.

“You wouldn't know how. But what have I really said to you? ‘I was at the lockhouse—lockhouse—lockhouse.' It's time for elevenses. There's a deck chair in the shade at the side of the house. I'll join you in a couple of minutes.”

She strolled to the deck chair but did not sit down. Her confidence in herself was waning. She had been nearly convinced by Eddis because he had revealed himself as lonely and miserable and in need of her solace. She had feared that Stranack might be the one who was telling the truth because, behind his swagger, she had sensed a boldness that had compelled her regard. And now Canvey, who had accepted her approach as natural behaviour on her part, was crowding out the other two—she was already more than half way to certainty that he was the innocent man—without any evidence—because she felt that she and he were the same kind of person.

I'm just like Veronica, she thought. Sizing up the men on their appeal to me as men. I must be an erotic female without knowing it.

She hurried to the lockhouse. His back was towards her as he bent over the sideboard.

“Don't turn round for a minute,” she said. “When you do turn round, pretend I'm Veronica.”

“But you aren't a bit like Veronica—thank heavens!” he said, without turning. “And I don't think it will lead to anything.”

“Like your fishing!” she taunted. “At any moment we
might
land something that could be turned into evidence … Oh, but I forgot! You didn't want to catch a fish!”

“You're cheating, but never mind. I'll play.” He turned round and gazed at her blankly.

“Go on,” she urged, which made him look unhappy.

“In amateur theatricals,” he explained, “I am always cast for the part of the chap who shows people to their seats.”

“You don't have to act it. Just remind yourself of what happened—using me as a lay figure. You must have said ‘hullo' or something when you first saw her.”

“I don't think I could have said ‘hullo'. I don't remember what I did say.”

“Where was she when you first saw her?”

“In here.”

“All right!” Jill stepped backwards. “Unknown woman appears in the doorway—like this.”

“No—er—no. It was I who appeared in the doorway.” He paused. “And I was carrying something—oh yes—her suitcase!”

Jill looked perplexed. The way he said it strongly suggested someone relating the circumstances of a dream.

“It does sound absurd, doesn't it!” he said. “But I'm sure I've got it right. I was fishing on the other side of the weir. I must have been, or I would have seen her walking in. She had come in to use the telephone. And dumped her case outside. I saw the case and stood my rod against the house. It was noticed there the next morning.”

“That's something!” said Jill, encouraging him and herself. “She was in the house when you first saw her. Small things like that might contain something the police could check.”

She concealed from herself the possibility that any one of the three might have inferred from the position of the rod that he had gone fishing between the departure of the Ford and the arrival of the girl—who might well have entered the empty house to telephone.

“Go on, Mr. Canvey.”

“The gentleman's name is Lyle.”

“Jill to you. Go on, Lyle. Was she telephoning when you came in?”

“I don't think so—no. Only talking about it and apologising.”

“And you said ‘That's all right. Go ahead and telephone'?”

Canvey thought it over.

“I didn't say that. I suppose I ought to have, but I didn't. I could see she had been footslogging and I suggested a drink first.”

“And she accepted.” Jill looked round the room. “Where did she sit while you mixed her a drink?”

“I first took her outside and planted her in a deck chair, facing the lock.”

“Show me. Plant me in that deck chair in the shade—we can imagine the lock.”

With a shrug he followed her out of the house.

Jill eyed the deck chair with mistrust. It was on the lowest notch but one.

“How did she manage to lower herself gracefully into that?”

“She left it to me.” He took her by the arm, pulled her off balance and lowered her gently into the chair.