The Beast Must Die (18 page)

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Nigel a little irritably, ‘except that Felix put down no more than the bare truth about the Ratterys in his diary.’

They walked the rest of the way to the garage in silence. The streets of Severnbridge dozed in the midday sunshine. If its inhabitants, gossiping at the mouths of its picturesque, historical and squalid alleys, were aware that the prosperous businessman who trotted past them was in reality New Scotland Yard’s most formidable Chief Inspector, they concealed their curiosity with remarkable ease. Even when Nigel Strangeways began to sign, mezzo forte, the ‘Ballad of Chevy Chase’, it caused no sensation – except in the bosom of Inspector Blount, who quickened his step and began to wear a rather hunted look. Severnbridge, unlike Inspector Blount, was quite inured to discordant
voices
raised in song along its main thoroughfare, though not usually at so early an hour. The charabanc loads of trippers from Birmingham had seen to that, kicking up every summer weekend a shindy that Sevenbridge had not experienced since the Wars of the Roses.

‘I wish you’d stop making that fearful noise,’ said Blount desperately at last.

‘Surely you cannot refer to my rendering of the greatest ballad –’

‘I can.’

‘Oh. Well, never mind. There are only fifty-eight more stanzas.’

‘My God!’ exclaimed Blount, a man exceedingly sparing of profanity. Nigel resumed:

‘Then the wild thoro’ the woodies went

On every sidè shear;

Grayhounds thoro’ the grevès glent

For to kill their deer.’

‘Ah, here we are,’ said Blount, scurrying into the garage. Two mechanics were sparring with each other, lighted cigarettes in their mouths, under a notice which proclaimed that Smoking was Strictly Forbidden. Blount enquired for the boss, and he and Nigel were shown into the office. While the Inspector made a little preliminary conversation, Nigel was studying Carfax; a small man, neatly dressed, quite nondescript in general appearance, his smooth, tanned
face
had that suggestion of subdued playfulness and open good humour which one sees on the faces of professional cricketers. He is a man with energy without ambition, thought Nigel – the kind that is happy to be a nonentity, is popular but has a deep fund of reserve, is mad-keen on some hobby, may very well be an unacknowledged expert in some unlikely branch of knowledge, makes an excellent husband and father. One would not for a moment connect him with violent passions. But that sort is deceptive, very deceptive. The ‘Little Man’, when roused, has the cool furious courage of the mongoose; the Little Man’s home is, traditionally, his castle – in defence of it he will show the most startling tenacity and initiative. This Rhoda, now. I wonder …

‘You see,’ Inspector Blount was saying, ‘we’ve made inquiries at all chemists in the district, and it is now – e-eh – established that no member of the deceased’s household has made purchases of strychnia in any form. Of course, whoever did it may have gone further afield. We shall continue to make inquiries on those lines, but provisionally we must assume that the murderer took some of the vermin-killer you keep here.’

‘Murderer? You have excluded the possibility of suicide or accident, then?’ asked Carfax.

‘Do you know any reason why your partner should have committed suicide?’

‘No. Oh no. I just wondered.’

‘There were no financial difficulties, for instance?’

‘No, the garage is doing reasonably well. In any case, I’d stand to lose a great deal more than Rattery if it failed. I put up the whole of the purchase price, you know, when we took it over.’

‘Indeed? Just so.’

Staring rather foolishly at the end of his cigarette, Nigel asked suddenly, ‘Did you
like
Rattery?’

Inspector Blount made a deprecatory movement with his hand, as though dissociating himself from so unorthodox a question. Carfax seemed less perturbed.

‘You’re wondering why I came in with him?’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact he saved my life during the war, and when I came across him again – oh, about seven years ago – he was, well, in difficulties. His mother had lost her money and – well, you see, the least I could do was to help him out.’

Without replying directly to Nigel’s question, Carfax had made it quite clear that his association with Rattery had been the repayment of a debt and not friendship. Blount got into his stride again. It was the usual routine question, of course, but he had to ask Mr Carfax about his movements on Saturday afternoon last.

Carfax, a subdued derisive twinkle in his eye, said, ‘Yes, of course. Routine enquiry. Well, about quarter to three I went over to the Ratterys’ house.’

Nigel’s cigarette dropped out of his mouth. He bent down hastily and picked it up. Blount went on, as
suavely
as though this was not the first he’d heard of any such visit.

‘Just a private call?’

‘Yes. I went to see old Mrs Rattery.’

‘Dear me,’ said Blount mildly, ‘I didn’t know of this. The servants – we questioned them – didn’t say anything about your visiting the house that afternoon.’

Carfax’s eyes were bright, unwinking, non-committal as a lizard’s. He said:

‘No. They wouldn’t. I went straight up to Mrs Rattery’s room – she had asked me to do so when she made the appointment.’

‘Appointment? It was – e-eh – in the nature of a business discussion you had with her then?’

‘Yes,’ said Carfax, a trifle more grimly.

‘Was it relevant at all to the case I am handling?’

‘No. Some might think it was, though.’

‘It is for me to decide that, Mr Carfax. You would do much better to be quite—’

‘Oh, I know, I know,’ said Carfax impatiently. ‘The trouble is, it involves a third person.’ He pondered for a moment, then said, ‘Look here, this won’t go past you two, will it? – if you find it’s nothing to do with—’

Nigel cut in, ‘Don’t worry. It’s all down in Felix Lane’s diary, anyway.’ He watched Carfax closely. The man was thoroughly puzzled – or else was giving a masterly imitation of a man thoroughly puzzled.

‘Felix Lane’s diary? But what does he know –?’

Ignoring a rather sultry glance from Blount, Nigel went on, ‘Lane noticed that Rattery – how shall I put it? – was an admirer of your wife’s.’ Nigel spoke in a subtly offensive manner, hoping to get Carfax angered and off his guard. Carfax, however, was equal to the thrust.

‘I see you have the advantage of me,’ he said. ‘Very well. I’ll make it as brief as I can. I’ll tell you the plain facts, and I only hope you won’t draw the wrong conclusions from them. George Rattery had been making advances to my wife for some time. She was amused, intrigued, gratified by it – any woman might be, you know; George was a handsome brute, in his way. She may even have carried on a harmless flirtation with him. I did not remonstrate with her. If one is afraid to trust one’s own wife, one has no right to be married at all. That’s my view, at any rate.’

Good heavens, thought Nigel. Either this man is a blind but rather admirable Quixote, or else he’s one of the subtlest, most plausible deceivers I’ve come across, or there’s the possibility, of course, that Felix deliberately over-coloured the relationship between Rattery and Rhoda Carfax in his diary.

Carfax went on, twisting his signet ring, his eyes screwed up as though against a too dazzling light, ‘Recently George’s attentions had been getting a bit too outrageous. Last year, by the way, he seemed to have lost interest altogether – he was carrying on then with his sister-in-law, at least that’s what people said.’ Carfax’s mouth was twisted into an expression
of
apologetic distaste. ‘Sorry about all this gossip. Apparently he and Lena Lawson had some sort of a row in January, and it was after this that George – er – redoubled his attentions to my wife. I still did not interfere. If Rhoda really preferred him to me – in the long run, I mean, there was no use my making scenes about it. Unfortunately at this point George’s mother stepped in. That’s what she wanted to talk to me about on Saturday afternoon. She pretty well accused me of Rhoda being George’s mistress, and asked me what I intended to do about it. I said I intended to do nothing at the moment, but, if Rhoda came and asked me to divorce her, of course I should do so. The old lady – she’s really rather an old horror, I’m afraid I’ve never been able to stomach her – then started a fantastic scene. Made it clear that she thought me a complacent cuckold, abused Rhoda, said she had led George on – which I thought pretty steep, and all the rest of it. Finally she more or less commanded me to put a stop to things. It would be very much the best thing, for all parties, if Rhoda was dragged back into the family pen and the whole affair hushed up; she, for her part, would see to it that George behaved himself in the future. It was, in effect, an ultimatum, and I don’t like ultimatums – ultimata, should I say? – especially from domineering old women. I repeated, more firmly, that if George liked to try and seduce my wife, it was his own lookout, and if she really wanted to live with him, I would agree to divorce her. Mrs Rattery then spoke at some length on public scandal,
family
honour and suchlike topics. She made me sick. I just walked out of her room in the middle of a sentence and out of the house.’

Carfax had been speaking more and more to Nigel, who nodded sympathetically as he made his points. Blount felt excluded, and somewhat out of his depth. This put a sceptical edge on his voice when he said, ‘That’s a very interesting story, Mr Carfax. Uh-huh. But you’ll have to admit that your conduct was a wee bit – e-eh – unconventional.’

‘Oh, I daresay,’ said Carfax indifferently.

‘And you walked straight out of the house, you say?’

There was a challenging emphasis on the word ‘straight’. Blount’s eyes glittered coldly behind his pince-nez.

‘If you mean, did I make a detour on the way, for the purpose of putting strychnine into Rattery’s medicine, the answer is in the negative.’

Blount pounced. ‘How did you know that was the way the poison was conveyed?’

Carfax regrettably failed to crumple up before this assault. ‘Gossip. Servants will talk, you know. Rattery’s parlourmaid told our cook that the police were all up in the air about a bottle of tonic having disappeared, so I put two and two together. One doesn’t have to be a Chief Inspector, you know, to be able to do a simple sum like that,’ Carfax added, with a touch of rather likeable malice.

Blount said, ponderously official, ‘We shall have to go into your statement, Mr Carfax.’

‘It would save you some trouble perhaps,’ rejoined the surprising Mr Carfax, ‘if I pointed out two things. No doubt they have occurred to you already. First, even if you don’t quite understand the attitude I’ve taken up about Rattery and my wife, you can’t imagine I’m lying about it; old Mrs Rattery will confirm that part of my – er – statement. Secondly, you may be thinking that it was just a blind – this attitude of mine – to conceal my real feelings, to conceal my intention of finishing this affair between George and Rhoda. But do please realise that I’d no need to do anything so drastic as murdering George. It was I who financed the garage and, if I’d wanted to choke George off, I could simply have told him he must lay off Rhoda or be thrown out of the partnership. His money or his love life, in fact.’

Having thus with consummate neatness spiked Blount’s whole battery of guns, Carfax sat back, gazing at him good-humouredly. Blount tried to counter-attack, but was met all along the line with the same cool candour and colder logic. Carfax almost seemed to be enjoying himself. The only new piece of evidence Blount could extract was that Carfax had an apparently unshakable alibi for the time of leaving the Ratterys’ house up to the time of the murder.

When the two had left the garage, Nigel said, ‘Well, well, well. The redoubtable Inspector Blount meets his match. Carfax played us off the field.’

‘He’s a cool customer,’ growled Blount. ‘Everything pat – just a wee bit too pat, maybe. You’ll have noticed, too, in Mr Cairnes’ diary, he mentions that Carfax pumped him about poisons one day he was down at the garage. We shall see.’

‘So your thoughts are straying from Felix Cairnes, are they?’

‘I’m keeping an open mind, Mr Strangeways.’

9

WHILE BLOUNT WAS
receiving a temporary quietus from Carfax, Georgia and Lena were sitting beside the tennis lawn at the Ratterys’. Georgia had come down to see if she could be of any use to Violet Rattery, but Violet, in the last day or two, had developed amazingly in confidence and authority. She seemed quite equal to any demands the situation might make upon her, and the jurisdiction of old Mrs Rattery was now confined to the four walls of her own room. As Lena remarked, ‘I suppose I oughtn’t to say it, but George’s death has made a new woman of Vi. She’s become what our English mistress used to call “such a serene person”. What a God-awful expression! But Vi – really, one would never suppose to look at her that she’d been a doormat for fifteen years – yes George, no George, oh George please don’t – and now George’s
been
poisoned and who knows the police mayn’t have got their eye on the widow.’

‘Oh, surely that’s not very—’

‘Why not? We’re all of us bound to be under suspicion – all of us who were in the house. And Felix has apparently been doing his best to get himself hung, though I don’t believe he’d have gone through with – you know, what he was telling us about last night.’ Lena paused, and went on in a lower voice, ‘I wish I could understand what – oh, to hell with it! How’s Phil today?’

‘When I left him, he and Felix were reading Virgil. He seemed quite cheerful. I don’t know about children, though; he’s awfully nervy at times, and then he suddenly shuts up like an oyster for no apparent reason.’

‘Reading Virgil. It’s just beyond me. I give up.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s a good idea to try and take his mind off this business.’

Lena did not answer. Georgia stared up at the clouds that rolled overhead. Her thoughts were broken at last by a scrunching noise beside her. She looked down quickly; Lena’s hand, supple and sunburnt, was tearing up grass by the roots, viciously tearing it up and sprinkling the handfuls on the lawn.