The 12.30 from Croydon (22 page)

‘Of course. But I don’t see. What matter if you did?’

‘None in a sense, but it just happened that when I had it in my hand Weatherup passed, and he saw me holding it.’

Charles gasped. So that was it! Peter was afraid of being suspected. Charles almost laughed in his relief. He did not, in fact, entirely repress a chuckle.

‘Why, you cuckoo,’ he cried, ‘you’re not imagining you’ll be suspected?’ Peter didn’t answer. ‘Peter, you’re not? You’re not really such an almighty fool?’

‘It’s not so foolish as you seem to think,’ Peter said gloomily. ‘Look at it this way. The old man was in a normal frame of mind at the time of his death. Weatherup swore he was neither upset nor depressed nor unduly excited, and I had to agree. He took his lunch normally, and he was keen to get to Paris to see Elsie. Well, from all that it can be argued that he wasn’t very likely to do himself in.’

‘All that was known to the coroner’s jury, and yet they brought in suicide.’

‘I know, but it was because they couldn’t account for the thing in any other way. Supposing now you add to all that, that the poison could have been put into one of those confounded pills, and supposing that on the evening before he died I was seen actually handling the bottle – what about that?’

‘Nothing about it. You weren’t the only one. Anyone in the house could have tampered with that bottle.’

‘Yes; but no one in the house was hard up and had been trying to get cash out of the uncle, which up to then he had refused.’

‘You said – and Crosby confirmed your statement – that he intended to give you some.’

‘Ah, yes – intended. But he hadn’t done so. Besides, what would I have got for a mortgage on the farm compared to what Elsie would have got if the old man had pegged out?’

‘But, man alive, you mustn’t deliberately
make
a case against yourself. All that’s biased.’

‘It’s the case that the police may make. I have to admit it’s reasonable from their point of view, and so must you. There’s no use in sticking your head in the ground, Charles. Everything I’ve said is a fact. They may take that view.’

‘Well, damn it, suppose they do? What matter? They can’t prove anything.’

‘They can prove all that. Will they need to prove anything more?’

For the second time the cold hand of fear descended on Charles’s heart. Was Peter right? Would they need to prove anything more? And if they didn’t, where would he, Charles, come in?

Here was a contingency he had never in his wildest moments foreseen. That his scheme should succeed so completely that not only he himself should not be suspected, but that his cousin’s husband be brought in guilty! Beads of sweat broke out on Charles’s forehead. If this ghastly thing really happened, what would he do?

He couldn’t, he
couldn’t
let Peter suffer – what he would suffer. But if Peter didn’t, then he himself… Una…

But they couldn’t bring Peter in guilty on such evidence! And yet could they not?

Charles shivered. The more he thought over the situation, the less he liked it. And the fact that this inspector had asked Peter about his movements that evening did certainly look as if he had something of the kind in his mind.

But wait a minute. They couldn’t prove that Peter had any poison. Charles turned with some eagerness.

‘You had no poison,’ he suggested.

‘No,’ said Peter, nodding his head. ‘I thought of that. It’s good as far as it goes. But you know, Charles, it doesn’t go very far. They might argue I had gone upstairs and got the stuff from his dark-room.’

‘Were you upstairs?’

‘Not then, but I have been upstairs.’

‘Nothing in it, Peter. You couldn’t have been guilty because you hadn’t any poison. And since you really hadn’t any poison they can’t prove you had.’

Peter seemed mildly comforted. ‘You really think so?’ he insisted with a kind of wistful eagerness.

Charles reassured him as best he could when his own mind was a quaking morass. ‘What you’ve got to do,’ he told him, ‘is to think up all the reasons you can why you must be innocent. If they accuse you, why not Crosby, why not Weatherup, why not Aunt Penelope, or even Margot? Why select you?’

‘That’s no good.’ Peter shook his head mournfully. ‘Motive. No one but I had any real motive. None of the others were hard up.’

‘You don’t know. Inquiries might show that Weatherup, to take the first name that comes, was stony. Why, for all we know to the contrary, he might have slipped something into the old man’s food in the plane. You see what I mean. If they go for you they must produce proof.’

‘They know I was hard up. They can find out from my bank just how hard. No, Charles, that cat won’t jump. Of course the inspector never hinted that he thought anything of the kind, but then he wouldn’t.’

‘No,’ said Charles slowly, ‘I don’t suppose he would.’

For some moments silence reigned, then Charles went on. ‘But what gets me is – what has raised the confounded thing now? Has anything new come out?’

Peter shook his head despondently. ‘I’m damned if I know. I’ve a sort of idea they were never satisfied at all; that they just let the coroner go ahead because they weren’t ready to do anything else. A lot of these police don’t care two hoots about a coroner.’

Charles absently agreed. Peter ground out the stump of his cigarette and got up.

‘There’s no use in worrying overmuch,’ he said, though his looks belied his speech. ‘You’ll come and dine as soon as we’ve settled down?’

‘Thanks, I’d like to.’

‘Right; I’ll let you know. Don’t come out, Charles. I can find my way.’

When Peter had gone, stark fear once again settled down on Charles. How beyond words ghastly if Peter should really be arrested! What should he, Charles, do? Dare he risk waiting to speak till after the trial? Then of course…

Charles resolutely put the dreadful idea out of his mind. It was all nonsense. A thousand to one nothing would come of it. He was giving himself all this anxiety and disquietude without any real need. They couldn’t prove anything against Peter.

And if they did?… But no, he wouldn’t think of that. It couldn’t happen.

At the same time Charles’s face was pale and his knees shaky when he left the office to go home. He felt that this interview with Peter had given him the most terrible shock of his life.

And yet it was not long before he came to look upon it as his salvation, and to feel that without it he must inevitably have been lost.

A few nights later, as he was sitting after dinner over a glass of port, Rollins brought him a card bearing the words, ‘Mr Joseph French’.

Charles’s heart gave a sudden leap. He took the card and bent over it to gain a second or two. Then he answered as calmly as he could: ‘Show him into the study, Rollins, and say I’m just finishing dinner and I’ll be with him in a moment.’

Charles listened to the footsteps in the hall as though they were the tread of Fate itself. Now was the time for him to show his courage and self-control! At least he was forewarned. That tale of Peter’s! If he hadn’t met Peter, this ghastly visit would have come on him as a surprise. Unsuspecting, he would have given himself away. Now it wasn’t so bad. He knew what was coming.

When the footsteps had died away he crossed to the sideboard and poured himself out a stiff peg of brandy. Then, feeling normal again, he went to the study.

A stoutish man of slightly below middle height was sitting near the fireplace, while a second, evidently a policeman in plain clothes, sat near the door. They got up as Charles entered. The stoutish man revealed a pleasant, clean-shaven face and a pair of shrewd but kindly blue eyes. Charles took comfort at his appearance. He did not look as formidable as he had somehow expected.

‘Good evening, sir,’ the newcomer began. ‘We’re sorry to trouble you at this hour, but our business is our excuse. You know my name, but I should tell you my calling.’ He took another card from his pocket and handed it over. ‘And this,’ he indicated, ‘is Sergeant Carter.’

‘I know your name,’ Charles answered. ‘You’re the inspector, aren’t you? I met my cousin, Peter Morley, a day or two ago, and he told me you had called on him.’

‘Yes, sir; that’s right. I saw him last Wednesday. Then he told you what I was here for?’

‘He did, and I was never more amazed in my life. Do you mean to tell me that there really is a doubt that my late uncle committed suicide?’

‘I gather, sir, that it’s the local chief constable who thinks there may be a doubt. The local police appear to have been satisfied enough. At all events I happened to be in this neighbourhood, and,’ he smiled slightly, ‘I was seized and pressed into the service.’

‘And what do you think yourself?’

‘I’m afraid I’ve not yet learnt enough about the affair to form any opinion. That’s what I’m now trying to do, and I’ve come round to ask you to kindly give me any help you can.’

Charles felt surprised and somewhat reassured. This was not like the opening he had expected from the police. There was no attempt here to browbeat or to intimidate by a loud voice and boorish manners. This man seemed reasonable, if not considerate. On the other hand, he certainly didn’t look a fool.

‘I’m at your service, inspector,’ he answered.

‘Thank you, sir.’ The man took out a notebook, opened it, and laid it, together with a fountain pen, on the table beside him. ‘First I may ask you the general question: can you tell me anything that may help me in this inquiry?’

Charles moved uneasily. ‘I don’t know that I can,’ he answered. ‘I take it that you mean what I know of my own knowledge, not, for example, what came out at the inquest?’

‘I mean anything that you may know of your own knowledge.’

‘I’m afraid there’s nothing. You see, I never for a moment suspected this theory that you’ve put up.’

‘I’ve not put it up as my own theory,’ French reminded him. ‘Perhaps I’d better go into details. What was your opinion of your uncle’s health? Did you think him predisposed to suicide?’

Charles, perhaps over-sensitive, scented here a trap. If he had definite opinions about this, it would show that he had considered the matter.

‘I thought his health was failing rather rapidly,’ he replied. ‘He was certainly growing weaker, both in mind and body, during the last few months. As to a predisposition to suicide, I never suspected it for a moment. I presume you mean before the inquest?’

‘Before the inquest – yes, sir.’

‘Before the inquest I never suspected it. After the inquest I assumed that it was suicide, surprising though this seemed. Certainly, till my cousin spoke to me to-day I never considered any other possibility.’

Inspector French nodded. ‘When did you last see your uncle?’ he went on.

Charles took his engagement diary from his pocket. ‘On Friday, the 25th of August. On that evening I dined at The Moat.’

‘And how did he seem then?’

‘Just as I have described. Weaker in every way, though it was what we called a good day with him.’

‘I understand. And had you seen him shortly before that date?’

‘Yes, I had seen him’ – Charles searched back in his book – ‘on the previous Thursday, the 17th of August. On that day I lunched with him. He was not so well on that day – in fact he got some kind of attack which scared me stiff. I thought he was gone, and called Weatherup, the attendant. He gave him some medicine and it revived him.’

French appeared interested in the attack. He got the fullest details Charles could give him.

‘If you don’t care to answer this question, you needn’t,’ he went on. ‘I should like if possible to know what your conversation was about. I should like to know whether it could have upset him at all?’

Charles wondered if another trap lay here. At all events, honesty was his obvious policy. ‘I’m afraid it might,’ he said with some appearance of regret. ‘I blamed myself afterwards, at all events. As to the subject of our conversation, I’ve already told Inspector Appleby all about it. All I asked him was that it shouldn’t be made public unless unavoidable. I wanted some money from my uncle,’ and Charles repeated what he had told Appleby, and what was indeed the truth. French noted it, then for some moments seemed lost in thought.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘that seems to be all about that. Now let’s see if I’ve got these dates right. You lunched with your uncle on the seventeenth and then dined on the night of the twenty-fifth. That was eight days between your visits. Doesn’t that seem a long time to have let such a matter hang fire? I’m not questioning your statement, you understand, but only clearing up my own mind.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Charles. Really the interview was being much easier than he had anticipated. ‘There were several reasons. In the first place the matter was not immediate. It was urgent, but not as urgent as all that. A week or two one way or another didn’t matter.’

‘I see, sir. And you got the money for the machines at that first call on the seventeenth?’

‘Yes. It wasn’t the first call on the subject, you understand, but it was the first of the two we are considering.’

‘Quite so. And there were other reasons, you said?’

‘Yes; another was that I didn’t want to hurry or to seem to be hurrying the old man. But the chief reason was that I was busy. I had to go up to Town. Or perhaps I should say, I did go up to Town; to look into the purchase of the machines.’

French nodded. ‘I think that answers my question. Did you stay long in Town?’

‘Two nights only.’ Charles thought he should be lavish with information this inspector could easily get for himself, and about which there was no secret. He therefore went on: ‘I drove up on the Monday, slept at the Duchy of Cornwall in Northumberland Avenue, went down to Messrs Endicott Brothers, of Reading, to inspect the machines on the Tuesday, and drove back on the Wednesday.’

French shrugged. ‘I didn’t really want to know all that,’ he declared, ‘though I’m not sorry to have it. It’ll make my report look more complete, as if I was really doing good work. Always worth while that, you know, sir.’ He smiled. ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I’m afraid we Yard inspectors get asking questions just out of habit. There’s some excuse for it, of course, as we’re seldom doing anything else.’ As he spoke, he was slowly putting away his notebook and pen. ‘You were from home at the time of Mr Crowther’s death, Appleby tells me.’