The Clock Strikes Twelve (7 page)

Phyllida woke in the dark to a knock on the door and murmured a sleepy, mechanical “Come in!” The door opened and shut, the ceiling light snapped on, and there coming towards her was Elliot, hastily dressed, his fair hair rumpled, his face drawn and grim. At the very first sight of him all her new happiness was gone. A dreadful conviction of disaster caught at her heart. It didn’t even seem strange for him to be there. She was out of bed in a flash, her hair about her shoulders.

“Oh! What is it? Elliot—what is it?”

“Bad news, I’m afraid.”

She was shaking. She caught at his arm to steady herself.

“It’s Mr. Paradine—he’s had an accident.”

“An accident—”

She was clutching him hard. It seemed quite natural to both of them. He said,

“I’m afraid he’s dead.”

The tears began to run down Phyllida’s face. Elliot said,

“You’d better sit down. And look here, Phyl, you’ve got to pull yourself together. It’s going to matter very much what we do and say—all of us. We’ve got to pull ourselves together, and we’ve got to keep our heads.” He took her over to the bed, and they sat together on the edge of it. “Look here, I’ll tell you about it. Lane found him. He’d fallen from the terrace. He was right down there on the river path. You know how he always went out the last thing to take the air and look at the river—he never missed, wet or fine. Well, he must have turned giddy and gone over the parapet. His bed hadn’t been slept in, and the study door was open. Lane went out with a torch and found him. Then he came to me, and I got Albert. I’ve left him ringing up all the people who’ve got to be told—Moffat, Frank Ambrose, Mark and Dicky, Dr. Horton, and the police.”

She was still holding him. Her grasp tightened.

“The police—”

He said in a curious restrained voice,

“Because of its being an accident—you have to notify the police when there’s been an accident.”

A long shudder went over her. She let go of him and turned so that they were facing one another.

“What did you mean—when you said—it mattered so much—what we said—”

Elliot did not answer her for a moment. Instead he got up, fetched the pale blue dressing-gown which lay over a chintz-covered chair, and came back with it.

“You’d better put this on.” Then, when he had put it round her, he said soberly, “I think you’ll have to tell Miss Paradine. And I think we shall all have to make up our minds what we are going to say to the police.”

They were both standing now. With her hands on the cord she was knotting at her waist, she looked up and said in a startled voice,

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what happened at dinner last night. It did happen, and we can’t behave as if it didn’t. A lot of people heard what he said. If they’re going to hold their tongues about it, they’ll all have to hold their tongues. If they’re going to talk—if any one of them is going to talk—the police will have a good many questions to ask.”

She finished tying her girdle before she said,

“What are you going to do?”

Their eyes met. His were hard, angry, antagonistic. He said,

“I don’t know.” Then, after a sharp break, “Was it an accident?”

“Oh—”

He went on looking at her with those hard eyes.

“Was it? You don’t know—I don’t know. If it was, it was a lucky accident for someone. You heard what he said—we all did. Someone in the family had let the family down, and he’d got it in for them. He’d got his own ideas about punishment, and he meant to keep it in the family, but whoever had done it wasn’t going to get off light. And he knew who it was. That’s the crux of the thing—he knew who it was. And he was going to be in his study till midnight, so confess and take the consequences. That’s what he said—wasn’t it? So someone goes along and confesses. And there aren’t any consequences, because James Paradine has an accident. That’s about the size of it, isn’t it?”

There was no colour at all in Phyllida’s face.

“How do you know—that someone—went to confess?”

Elliot said,

“I know.”

“How—how?”

After a pause he said,

“Something was taken. Well, it had been put back.”

“What was taken?”

He shook his head.

“I can’t tell you. I’m only telling you that I know someone did go to the study last night.”

Phyllida looked at him in a very direct and simple manner and said,

“I went there.”

His hand came down on her shoulder almost with the force of a blow.

“Do you know what you’re saying?”

She nodded.

“Of course I know. I went down to the study because I wanted to talk to Uncle James.”

“After what he said at dinner, you were damned fool enough to go to the study?”

It was extraordinarily heartening to have Elliot swearing at her. Polite strangers don’t swear at you. This was Elliot—angry. Something very homely and familiar about it. She said,

“Oh, don’t be silly! I wasn’t thinking about all that. I wanted to talk to him.”

No man can really believe how irrelevant a woman’s mind can be. Elliot stared.

“He said all that at dinner, and you weren’t thinking about it—you just wanted to talk? What did you want to talk about?”

“About us.”

He let go of her, walked away until the dressing-table brought him up short, and then stood with his back to her fingering the odds and ends which lay there—nail-scissors, a powderpuff, a little pot of cream, a pencil.

“Why did you want to do that?”

Phyllida’s smile came out just for a moment, showed, trembled, and was gone again. Her eyes were wet. If he had looked into the mirror he would have seen these things. But his eyes were on the foolish trifles which somehow plucked at his heart and made it hot and angry.

She said,

“Oh, I just thought I would.”

And with that he swung round and came back to her. »

“Did anyone see you—coming or going?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What time was it?”

“I don’t know—some time after ten o’clock. I suppose I was there about twenty minutes, but I don’t really know. I didn’t look at the time—then.”

“How do you mean, then?”

A frightened look came over her face. She came nearer.

“It was afterwards. I went to sleep—and I woke up—I had a horrid dream—and just as I woke up I thought there was a cry. Oh, Elliot, do you think—”

He said quickly,

“Did you look at the clock then? What time was it?”

“Just after twelve—about half a minute past. I put on the light and looked. Oh—was it then?”

“Sounds like it. Now look here—you hold your tongue about all this. You went to your room just before ten, and you went to your bed, and you slept all night. You didn’t hear anything and you don’t know anything—that’s you. Close as a clam—do you hear?”

She said, “I—don’t—know—”

He took her by the shoulders and shook her.

“Oh, yes, you do! You hear what I say, and you’ll do what you’re told! I’m not going to have you mixed up in this, and that’s flat!”

Something inside Phyllida began to sing. If he didn’t care he wouldn’t be angry like this. He was frightfully angry. His chin stuck out about a mile, and he had bruised her shoulder. She looked down to hide the something in her eyes which she didn’t want him to see. And right at that moment the door opened and Grace Paradine came in.

She had knotted up her hair, but she wore a plum-coloured dressing-gown and bedroom slippers trimmed with fur. What she saw was certainly capable of misconstruction—Phyllida with her eyes cast down and Elliot’s hands just dropping from her shoulders. It might have been the end of an embrace—or the beginning. Her eyes fairly blazed as she said,

“What does this mean?”

It was a source of some regret to Elliot that decency forbade any of the replies which sprang readily enough to his mind. You cannot score off a woman who is just going to be told that her brother has met with a fatal accident. He said, “Phyllida will tell you, Miss Paradine,” and walked past her out of the room.

Grace Paradine came up to Phyllida and put her arms round her.

“Oh, my darling, don’t look like that! I never dreamed—How dare he come in here—it’s outrageous! But you mustn’t let it upset you. I shall see that it doesn’t happen again.”

Phyllida did not look up. She said quite gently,

“It wasn’t Elliot who upset me, Aunt Grace.”

Grace Paradine stiffened.

“What do you mean?”

Phyllida made an effort. If she had to do it she must do it quickly. She steadied herself and said,

“Something has happened. Elliot came to tell me. It’s something dreadful. It’s—it’s—Uncle James—”

“What?” said Grace Paradine on a sharp note of fear.

Phyllida said,

“Oh, Aunt Grace—he’s dead!”

The family had assembled in Miss Paradine’s sitting-room, a pleasantly furnished room with deep blue curtains and upholstery. There was a fine old walnut bureau and some Queen Anne chairs, and half a dozen moderately good watercolours on the plain cream walls. But what took the eye and held it were the photographs in every size and aspect, from babyhood to what magazine articles call present day, of Phyllida. There was, to be sure, one remarkable omission. Phyllida in her wedding dress was not represented by so much as a snapshot. The photographs ceased with Phyllida Paradine. There were none of Phyllida Wray. It was only a stranger, however, who would have been struck with this. The family were too used to it to take any notice, and it was the family who were assembled—Grace Paradine, Frank and Brenda Ambrose, Mark and Richard Paradine—sister, stepson and daughter, nephews—and Phyllida.

Miss Paradine was speaking as Elliot Wray came into the room. He shut the door behind him and surveyed the scene—Grace Paradine and Phyllida on the sofa; Mark at the window with his back to the room; Frank Ambrose and Dicky on the hearth, Frank with an elbow on the mantelpiece, Dicky fiddling with a bit of string, both of them shocked and strained; Brenda bolt upright in one of the Queen Anne chairs, her black felt hat tipped crooked.

Grace Paradine took no notice of the opening and shutting of the door. She went on with what she was saying in her deep, full voice.

“I don’t see how there can be any question about it. He wasn’t himself at all. I don’t know when I was so shocked. It is not only quite unnecessary for it to be mentioned—it would really be a great injustice to his memory. He could never have said what he did if he had been himself. It was”—the deep voice vibrated as if it were about to break—“it was terribly painful. We all felt that, and I think we want to forget about it as soon as we can. We don’t want to remember him like that.” She forced a tremulous smile and looked from one to the other.

Mark’s back gave no clue to what he was thinking. Brenda looked obstinate, Frank Ambrose grave and doubtful. In Dicky alone she discerned a response. Elliot had been very markedly excluded, but it was he who spoke. He came forward, joined the group by the fire, and said,

“I gather that you are discussing whether to say anything about what happened at dinner last night.”

“Why should we?” said Brenda defiantly. This was so unexpected that everyone stared at her. “I don’t see that it’s anyone’s business.”

Dicky nodded.

“Of course it isn’t. Why should it be? The whole thing’s perfectly ridiculous—I don’t know why we’re discussing it. Aunt Grace has said anything that needs to be said. He wasn’t himself last night—anyone could see that. I thought he’d gone off his head— I suppose we all did. Very painful and upsetting—the sort of thing they call a brain-storm, I suppose. Then he went out on the terrace like he always does to have a look at the river and fell over. Turned giddy or something. It’s a bad business, but we don’t want to make it worse, cooking things up.”

Frank Ambrose said,

“Yes, it’s a bad business.” And then, “I don’t suppose they’ll ask any questions that would be difficult to answer—why should they?” There was no ring in his voice, and no conviction behind the words. They fell discouragingly upon the room.

There was a flat silence which lasted until Elliot said,

“They’ll ask whether he was just as usual last night, and they’ll want to know who saw him last.”

This time the silence was not flat, but electric. Again it was Elliot who broke it. He said what he had said to Phyllida.

“If we’re going to hold our tongues, we’ll all have to hold them. Better look at it squarely. There were ten of us at dinner last night besides Mr. Paradine. He made a serious charge against one of us. He didn’t say who it was, but he said he knew. He also said he meant to punish the person in his own way, and that the amount of punishment would depend on whether he got a full confession before midnight. He said he would be in his study until then. Everyone knows that he didn’t say things unless he meant them. If he said he was going to stay in his study until twelve, then he did stay there until twelve. And everyone knows that he never went to bed without crossing the terrace to look at the view. We’ve all heard him talk about it and say that he hadn’t missed a night for fifty years except when he was away from home. Well, if those three things are put together, I think we’re all going to be asked some questions we don’t particularly want to answer. We would all rather hold our tongues, but the thing is, if one of us doesn’t we are all going to be in the soup. The thing that’s got to be decided here and now is whether those ten people can be depended upon.”

Grace Paradine looked past him and said with a good deal of emphasis,

“It is a matter for the family to decide.”

The implication was too plain to be missed—Elliot Wray was mixing in matters which did not concern him. It took him no time at all to understand and accept the challenge.

“It’s a matter which will have to be agreed upon by all the ten people to whom Mr. Paradine spoke last night. Pearson’s making himself useful—he’ll be along presently. What about Irene and Lydia? Can you answer for them, Frank? There isn’t much time, you know—the Superintendent will be wanting to see Miss Paradine. What about it?”

He addressed Frank Ambrose, but it was Brenda who replied. She gave a short laugh entirely devoid of merriment and said,

“Lydia and Irene! I don’t suppose either of them could hold their tongues if they tried! I can’t say I’ve ever seen either of them try.”

Frank Ambrose was frowning heavily. He said,

“They’ll have to—that’s all about it.”

“If they don’t?”

“They’ll have to.” He gave himself a kind of shake and straightened up. “I would like to say that I think too much is being made of what happened last night. I agree with Aunt Grace that he wasn’t himself—he couldn’t have been. The whole thing was extremely painful, and I can’t think why anyone should want to talk about it. I suggest that we stop doing so. It has nothing whatever to do with the police, and it has no possible bearing on the Governor’s accident. I propose that we now drop the subject.”

Grace Paradine said,

“I quite agree.”

After which there was a pause which was broken by Brenda Ambrose, who said in her most downright voice,

“I wonder what put it into his head. And I wonder if anyone did go and see him in the study last night.”

The colour ran up into Phyllida’s face. Elliot saw it because he was looking at her. And all mixed up with being angry and wondering whether anyone else had seen her flush, he was thinking that Lydia was right—she had got thin. And he hated that grey dress—it made her look like a ghost. But he supposed she would have to wear it. Insensate custom mourning—barbaric. His eyes met hers and forbade her to speak. Then he swung round on Brenda.

“That’s another thing the police will want to know—which of us saw him last? I was with him for a minute or two after I said goodnight in the drawing-room. If nobody saw him later than that, I suppose it rests with me.”

Grace Paradine’s glance just flickered over him.

“You went to see him in the study?”

“I did.”

“Do we ask why?”

“You do if you like—I don’t at all mind saying. He asked me to stay here last night because we had business together. I went to the study to say goodnight to my host. I wasn’t there three minutes, as Albert can testify. He saw me go in, and waited for me to come out again.”

Brenda fixed her light gaze upon him and said in the tone of one who makes a discovery,

“Albert—now that’s an idea! I don’t mind betting that it was Albert whom the Governor meant—I don’t mind betting it was. I wonder what he’s been up to—letting out official secrets, or hanky-panky with the cash? When you come to think of it, Albert’s much the most likely person.”

Elliot laughed.

“That, my dear Brenda, is exactly what Albert thought. That is why he was waiting for me. He said with perfect frankness that the family would try and put it on him, and he wanted an alibi. So he clung to me till well after midnight. It was rather like sitting up with the Encyclopedia Britannica. But I’m in a position to say that he never got a chance of going anywhere near the study until after the accident must have happened.”

“But no one knows when it happened—not exactly. How can they?” said Dicky.

Elliot looked round at him.

“Well, as a matter of fact they can, because it began to rain just after twelve, and the ground under the body was dry. The Superintendent says it was coming down hard. Albert and I were having drinks in the dining-room about then. It was nearly ten past twelve when we got back to my room and said goodnight. So I’m afraid it’s no good picking on Albert for the family skeleton.”

Brenda said, “Pity—” and with that the door opened and Albert Pearson came in.

“The Superintendent would like to see Miss Paradine.”

Grace Paradine got up.

“Perhaps I had better see him here. What do you think?”

Elliot said,

“Shut that door, Albert! Look here, we’ve agreed that it’s no use saying anything about what happened at dinner last night.”

Albert said,

“Oh, quite—let sleeping dogs lie and all that. But it’s not going to be so easy—is it?”

For the first time, Mark Paradine turned round. He had stood looking out over the wet gravel sweep, the frost-burned lawn, and wet, dark shrubberies which were all that were to be seen from this side of the house. It was Phyllida’s sitting-room which looked upon the river and had the view. Miss Paradine had contented herself with the lesser prospect.

It is to be doubted whether Mark knew what he had been looking at. He turned, and Elliot was conscious of some degree of shock. The dark skin had a greenish tinge. There was a tension of every muscle. The line of the jaw was rigid. The eyes had certainly known no sleep. He said harshly,

“What do you mean?”

Albert came a little farther into the room.

“Well, you see, it’s going to be awkward.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they’re not satisfied. I’ve been there with them, and I’ve done my best, but they’re not satisfied.”

“How do you mean, they’re not satisfied?”

Mark’s hands were deep in his pockets. Elliot guessed at fists clenched hard. Everything about him seemed to be clenched. He began to have cold feet. He liked Mark.

Albert said in the voice which always sounded a little smug,

“Well, they’re not. They’re not satisfied about its being an accident.”

“What else could it be?” said Grace Paradine in deep indignant tones.

Albert turned to answer her.

“Well, they haven’t said, Miss Paradine, but it’s plain enough that they’re not any too satisfied. You see, there are a lot of scratches and abrasions which must have been due to his striking the parapet. Dr. Horton says he must have come up against it hard, and they don’t seem to think he’d have done that if he’d turned giddy. I’m afraid it’s going to be awkward.”