Find the Innocent (19 page)

“Yes,” said Jill. “What about it?”

“I gave it to her.”

“When?”

“In your presence. I'll show you. You were holding the door open—by way of throwing me out. From where you were standing you could see only the back of her head. I came close up to her to deliver a bit of high falutin.” He produced a shilling. “This represents the wedding ring. I flashed it at Veronica—like this. My hat! You ought to have seen her face but luckily you couldn't! I leant forward a bit, keeping the other hand in your line of vision, and I said: ‘You and I snatched a few hours of happiness. You are safe—and I am not.' And when I said: ‘You are safe,' I dropped the ring in her lap—like this!”

That made sense of Veronica's behaviour over the ring. It was convincing and she hated him for it.

“What a nasty little schoolboyish trick!” she exclaimed.

“What does that matter! The point for you is—how could I have been in possession of her ring—?”

“How indeed!” interrupted Jill. “So far, you have merely stated that you were in possession of the ring. Am I expected to pay for an unsupported statement?”

Jill felt as if she were cheating. She wanted to believe he was lying and could not.

“My fault!” he apologised. “I've left out the important bit. I ought to have asked you whether you know what is engraved inside that wedding ring—the actual words?”

“I know the actual words,” answered Jill. He was staring at her with alarm. She added: “Do you?”

“Yes, but I've suddenly forgotten them. Nervous strain, I suppose. I need a holiday.”

“Most unfortunate!” said Jill as coldly as she could.

“Yes. If the Great Brain fails I'm sunk. Let's get back to business.”

He took out a pocket diary and turned the pages.

“Here we are! The inscription reads: ‘Vevey stroke Piggy' and then a date—presumably their wedding day.”

“Correct!” Jill was clutching at a straw. It did not prove he was the innocent man—but it brought him a step nearer.

“May I pour you another drink?”

“No, thanks. Why did you give it back to Veronica instead of handing it to the police?”

“Because I'm an ass!” he cried with sudden bitterness. “I wish now I had taken it to the police. At least, I think I do and the asinine mood comes back and I'm glad I didn't. With your sane outlook and your business training and the rest of it, you'll find it difficult to follow.”

“Try me,” said Jill. “You can help me over the hard parts.”

“That brawl we had that night at the Red Lion! I came into that room assuming she would own up. I intended to give her back her ring as an act of courtesy. I was angry when she flatly denied that she had ever been here. Then I had another good look at her and I thought I might as well let her get away with it if she could.”

“That was a very generous act on your part,” said Jill, shocked to find that she meant it.

“It was not a generous act—it was a shamefaced act. Surely you can guess why a man wouldn't want a woman to lose a lot of money in those circumstances?”

“So you were her lover?”

“I did not say that. Let's try hard to leave love out of it.”

“What about throwing away your own safety?”

“You're using hindsight. I didn't know then that the police would get bogged down like this. Also, that ring would not have cleared me then any more than it will now. It would merely have proved that Veronica was at the lockhouse with one of us. There could be no sense in dragging Veronica in if it wouldn't drag me out. Hence the nasty little schoolboyish trick.”

“I withdraw that, and apologise,” said Jill. “I believe you are the innocent man.”

“Oh no, you don't!” he chuckled. “Line up the three of us. One of these men committed murder. Which? You'd pick on me and so would everybody else.”

Jill smiled. “True enough, I suppose. You're the only one of the three who looks dangerous.” With it came the thought that he was the kind of man who would sweep Veronica off her feet. “But the ring changes all that.”

“Tell that to Curwen and he will tell you that when he arrived here the morning after, I was in the act of diving into the lock. I could have—as a matter of fact I
did
—recover that ring from the bottom. That doesn't prove I was the man who threw it in.”

The bouncy salesman had vanished, leaving a likeable man. She liked him the more for insisting that it was still possible that Lyle Canvey could be the innocent man.

“I warn you,” he continued, “that if you run to Curwen with this ring story you will end by looking foolish.”

“Would it break your heart if I were to make a fool of myself? Don't you
want
your innocence to be proved?”

“No!”

Before she could make any comment he went on:

“You're puzzled—because you've never been arrested. I can tell you—once a policeman grabs you, if only by mistake, it gives you a different slant on yourself.”

“So that you no longer wish to clear yourself of whatever the policeman grabbed you for?”

“As it is, I don't have to clear myself, so I can afford to think of others.” He walked to the side window and looked out as if everything had been explained. His words implied, Jill noted, that he was the innocent man—no doubt intentionally. When he turned round he shattered her calculations.

“As one of the guilty men, I can clear myself only by handing over two men to destruction, one of them wholly innocent.”

Had it slipped out by inadvertence, she wondered. Seconds passed and he did not correct himself.

“As one of the guilty men?” she repeated.

“Turn it round, if you like. As the innocent man, I buy myself out of the scandal by destroying two men whose crime I might have committed myself, had I been there. By the way, another thing the policeman takes away from you is your pharisaism. You see your own nearness to every man who has been grabbed.”

“So that's how you dress up the ugly truth that you are shielding a murderer!” she said, rising to go.

“I've done much worse than that!” He strode from the window and faced her. “I have seduced an honourable and delightful girl to a shameful bargain—and I've got her cheque in my pocket.”

A one-sided truth but it hurt her and she could not conceal the hurt.

“Because you have told yourself that I am trying to snatch Veronica's money!” she blurted out. “WillyBee to you is already an abstract problem. To me he is a person—a very dear person—something between an overgrown brother and an honorary parent.”

The tough looking face twitched, then resumed its illusory toughness.

“Your affection for him inspires you to—
what?”

“To a restlessness—to a need to know all about the way he was—thrust out of living. I can't fold my hands, sigh a little and then thank heavens he has left me some money. He has—even if your chambermaid failed to pick up that bit.”

“So it's not the money!” He was excited. “It's just affection for WillyBee that makes you determined to drag his wife through the mud.”

“That's a horrible thing to say!”

“And you come here to play the policeman so that you may lay two lives on the altar of your family affection.
That
, sweet child, is called vengeance! I agree that it's horrible—but only by the standards that you and I have abandoned. By those standards we are both horrible. Let's console each other, Jill. You attract me more than Veronica ever could.”

She perceived his intention before his arms imprisoned hers. He was holding her firmly enough to hurt her a little, but she was unconvinced. His kiss was clumsily placed, though she had made no effort to evade it.

She remained motionless until he released her.

“Thank you, Arthur!” she said breezily. “I'm afraid I got more fun out of it than you did.”

“And you're getting more fun at this moment!” He had accepted defeat. “You haven't even pretended to be frightened or insulted.”

“Why should I? That sort of thing is flattering, even if one doesn't want it to happen.”

“You're thinking me a clown and you're right.”

“Nonsense!” she smiled. “You're a difficult man to label. I must not think of you as the innocent man—nor as the guilty. So I have to think of half of you as a kindly companionable man who conceals a reserve of considerable courage. And half of you as a guilty man who feels very sorry for himself and a little sorry for his victim. Isn't that what you want?”

“Splendid!” he cried. “Don't run away. Stop and have lunch with me.”

“Thanks, but I couldn't be sure which half I was lunching with. Goodbye!”

He did not follow her. Outside the house, she forgot him as a person and fixed her thoughts on Veronica. The wedding ring story was true—whichever of the three men had been her companion. She could no longer fool herself with the hope that, by some thousand to one chance, Veronica had been telling the lies to cover up something else.

She had gained nothing. The proof was proof for herself alone—she could take no action about it. If she were to report to the police, they would assume that she had herself given Stranack the wording engraved on the ring—in order to fabricate evidence for the annulment of Veronica's marriage settlement. Nothing had been changed—except that she had lost her own sense of direction. She had conceived it her duty to WillyBee to do all she could to hound down the men who had killed him. She had not thought of it as vengeance, until Stranack had used the word.

At the top of the ramp she came upon Lyle Canvey lounging on the grass verge, his parcel of laundry beside him.

“No bread van!” he explained. “I'm hoping you will offer me a lift back to Renchester.”

“Of course!” she answered, accepting the footing he offered of casual acquaintanceship, hating herself for her disappointment.

“My solicitor,” he said, as he sat beside her in the car, “has given me the advice I wanted—that there's nothing whatever I can do. I told him about you—and he said the same applied to you.”

“So let's pretend that nothing has happened!” She had spoken bitterly and added: “I feel I ought to tell you that I have satisfied myself that the wedding ring story is true. Does that make any difference?”

“Meaning that on that point you have satisfied yourself that I was telling the truth.” He laughed.

“I never doubted that you were telling the truth in our talk the other day.”

“And now you are more sure than ever! Isn't that because you've had a good look at Stranack and decided that he's more obviously a scoundrel than I am? It may be true—but don't you mistrust judgements based on a chap's manner?”

They were half way to Renchester before either spoke again.

“You three men have at least one thing in common. Each of you is offended by the suggestion of his innocence.”

“Not offended! Disconcerted. One winces at being called innocent. I mean, if we agree that I spent that night at the lockhouse, what degree of innocence am I entitled to claim? Did WillyBee love Veronica?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“There you are! I think of myself in the witness box, oozing injured innocence, while I procure the conviction of the other two. Suppose WillyBee had lived and found out? It isn't too far from the truth to say that when you kill a man's love, you inflict a mild form of death.”

“‘A mild form of death!'” she echoed scornfully. “What about the law?”

“Yes, of course! Vengeance of society on the wrongdoer! Very necessary! I'm all for it. But it's rather beastly, isn't it? The sort of thing you feel others ought to do but you'd hate to do yourself.”

“Would you rather live the rest of your life under a cloud?”

“Good Lord, no!” He added: “Fortunately, I have not the power to choose.”

Again the shrinking from the very idea of vengeance.

She decided to go at once to Veronica and try her luck.

Jill did not telephone—Veronica might refuse to see her. She arrived at the Bayswater flat shortly after seven that evening. She rang the bell and knocked, without result.

This was an unexpected check. Veronica could hardly have started gadding about already. Jill decided to wait. The block, by way of living up to its label of “luxury flats”, provided a divan on every landing. Jill sat down—possibly the first person to do so since the block had been opened. She had an oblique view of the door. She would wait until Veronica had let herself in.

At the end of twenty minutes there was no sign of Veronica but ample evidence of Sir Edward Maenton.

Jill waited until he abandoned the routine with bell push and knocker.

“Good evening. Sir Edward! I don't know where Veronica is. If you have come to see her professionally I'll clear off.”

“Miss Aspland!” Maenton conveyed surprised delight. “You must certainly not run away on my account. Perhaps she has left word with the porter. Come with me and help me intimidate him.”

He bowed her into the lift, chattering. The porter said that Mrs. Brengast had left no message.

Maenton gave his name and profession.

“I had an appointment with Mrs. Brengast and I feel sure she would be grateful if you would give me any information you can.”

“None to give, sir. Mrs. Brengast went out about four this afternoon. I carried down a couple o' suitcases and put 'em in a taxi—for Victoria, it was. Mrs. Brengast didn't say when she'd be back.”

Maenton tipped him, with the air of paying for a valuable service. Jill observed that he was neither surprised nor annoyed that his appointment had been cut. In the hall he beamed at her.

“Miss Aspland, you are wondering where she has gone. I am not,” he said. “Will you give me the pleasure of dining with me?”