The Clock Strikes Twelve (8 page)

Superintendent Vyner came in with something of the air of a docile bull in the traditional china shop. He was, as a matter of fact, uncomfortably conscious that his boots were not only large but muddy, and that the whole situation was, as Mr. Pearson had put it, awkward. Previous contacts with Miss Paradine had been over such pleasant matters as the provision of police for the marshalling of cars at social functions. There had also been handsome donations to police dances and police charities. Business was business of course, and duty was duty. He found it in his heart to wish that Dr. Frith, the police surgeon, was less positive about those cuts and bruises. Dr. Horton, now, he was all for making things easy for the family—hadn’t been their doctor best part of twenty years for nothing. But when Frith up and put it to him—well, there was no mistaking it, he didn’t see his way to contradicting him, not out and out. He’d have liked to, but he didn’t see his way to it. Cautious, and got his reputation to think about. Frith was one of the cocksure sort, but the way he put it you couldn’t help seeing he’d got sense on his side. If a man turns giddy he goes down in a heap, blundering. He don’t come up against a two-foot parapet hard enough to cut his trousers and take a bit out of his knee, to say the least of it. And when Frith says and sticks to it that those cuts and bruises were made before death, and you can see for yourself where the stone’s been knocked from the parapet—well, it’s no wonder Dr. Horton won’t go farther than to say that he don’t feel called on to express an opinion. The plain English of it was that it looked uncommon like Mr. Paradine having been pushed over that parapet, and the next thing after that was—who pushed him? There was no getting from it, it was awkward.

With these thoughts occupying his mind, he advanced into the room, and was aware of Miss Paradine, tall and dignified in a plain black dress. She inclined her head, bade him good-morning, and asked him to be seated. Looking about for a chair, he selected the one upon which Brenda Ambrose had been sitting, and wished the interview well over. The family had been dismissed. Miss Paradine was alone and gravely at her ease.

“This is a very sad accident, Superintendent,” she said.

Something in the way she said it gave him just that hint of opposition which puts a man’s back up. Mr. Pearson knew well enough that Dr. Frith wasn’t satisfied about its being an accident. Very outspoken about it Frith had been, and nothing was going to persuade Superintendent Vyner that Mr. Pearson had held his tongue. Why, it wasn’t in nature that he wouldn’t have passed on what he’d heard. Frith shouldn’t really have talked so free. But there it was, he’d said right out in front of the butler and Mr. Pearson that it wasn’t an accident, and it was a hundred to one that Mr. Pearson would have passed that on. So when Miss Paradine got off with its being a sad accident it just naturally put his back up, because it looked like she was trying to come it over him. And he was in his duty.

He sat up straight in the Queen Anne chair, and he looked at the lady and said right out,

“Dr. Frith doesn’t think it was an accident.”

She had a handkerchief in her hand. She might have been crying, or she might not. She touched her lips with it, sitting up very straight on the sofa, and said,

“Dr. Frith? What do you mean? Dr. Horton was my brother’s doctor.”

The Superintendent nodded.

“Dr. Frith is the Police Surgeon. It’s his opinion that it was no accident.” He told her why.

She listened with increasing distress.

“But, Superintendent—I can’t believe it. You mean you think—no, Dr. Frith thinks—that my brother was pushed?”

“That’s what he makes of the evidence, and I’m bound to say that’s how it looks to me.”

She was staring at him with a horrified expression.

“But who—there’s no one—it’s too dreadful—”

“That’s what we’ve got to find out. I take it you will give us all the assistance you can.”

“Of course.”

“Then perhaps you won’t mind answering a few questions.”

“Oh, no.”

He sat forward a little—a big man, heavily built, with grey hair beginning to recede from the temples, and a square, weather-beaten face. The hair had once been fair, and the rather deep-set eyes were astonishingly blue. He said,

“I would like to ask whether there is anyone you might suspect.”

“Indeed there isn’t.”

“No one with a motive—no one who might have wanted him out of the way? No quarrels? No threats or threatening letters?”

“None that I knew about.”

“No differences of opinion in the business—or in the family?”

Miss Paradine’s tone was very cold as she replied,

“Certainly not.”

Vyner said with a shade of apology in his voice,

“You mustn’t mind my asking you these questions—they have to be answered. Now you had a family party here last night. These are the names as your butler gave them to me. Staying in the house, besides yourself and Mr. Paradine, there were Mr. and Mrs. Wray and Mr. Pearson. Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose, Miss Ambrose, and Miss Pennington, Mr. Mark Paradine and Mr. Richard Paradine dined here. Is that correct?”

“Quite.”

“At what time did you dine?”

“Eight o’clock is our dinner hour, but we were a few minutes late. Mr. Wray’s visit was on business. We were not expecting him, and the meal was delayed.”

“I see. Can you tell me when you left the dining-room?”

“At about nine o’clock, I suppose—I didn’t notice particularly.”

“The party broke up rather early, didn’t it?”

“Mrs. Ambrose was anxious about her little girl. They left at about half past nine.”

“And Mr. Mark and Mr. Richard?”

“Soon afterwards.”

“Did Mr. Paradine join you in the drawing-room after dinner?”

“No.”

“Was that usual?”

Miss Paradine hesitated. Then she said,

“I don’t think I know quite what you mean.”

The Superintendent looked at her very straight.

“You had a New Year’s Eve party. Mr. Paradine did not join you in the drawing-room. He went straight from the dining-room to his study. Wouldn’t that be unusual?”

She said,

“I don’t think he was quite himself.”

“You mean that he was ill?”

“Oh, no—not ill—I didn’t mean that. He just didn’t seem quite himself, and when he didn’t come into the drawing-room, I thought he wanted to be quiet. He had had a lot of business all day. Mr. Wray was with him right up to dinner-time, I believe. And he wasn’t a young man.”

He thought, “She’s doing a lot of explaining.” He asked,

“Did you see him at all after you left the dining-room?”

She said, “No.” The handkerchief went to her lips again.

“Not when the party was breaking up?”

“No.”

“He didn’t come out of the study when Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose and the others were going away?”

“No.”

“Did they go into the study to say goodbye?”

She said, “No,” again.

He shifted his weight on the chair.

“Wouldn’t that be rather unusual, Miss Paradine?”

Her face showed only offence, but on the hand which was holding the handkerchief the knuckles stood up white.

“No—I don’t know. I think we all took it for granted that he didn’t wish to be disturbed. It was a family party. There was no need to stand on ceremony.”

“Then did none of you see him again?”

“Not that I know of. Oh, I believe Mr. Wray did.”

“Oh, Mr. Wray did? Yes, I remember he said so— he went in to say goodnight. Did nobody else do that?”

“Really, I can’t say.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose didn’t—or Miss Ambrose—or Mr. Mark—or Mr. Richard?”

“No.”

“Or you yourself?”

“I did not think that he would wish to be disturbed.”

“Or Mrs. Wray?”

“Oh, no. She went upstairs before I did.”

He leaned forward.

“Miss Paradine, you must realise that all this has a very unusual sound. I feel obliged to ask you whether there was anything to account for this break-up of the party and no one except Mr. Wray having seen Mr. Paradine to say goodnight. I am bound to tell you what it looks like to me, and that is a family quarrel.”

“There was no quarrel.”

“No difference of opinion? No unpleasantness of any kind? Nothing to make Mr. Paradine go off to his study? Nothing to account for the party breaking up at half past nine without saying goodnight to him?”

She sat up very straight and said coldly,

“The party broke up because Mrs. Ambrose was anxious about her little girl.”

“A case of serious illness?”

“Oh, no. She is apt to be overanxious.”

“Miss Paradine, you must see that this does not account for the whole party breaking up before a quarter to ten. And it doesn’t explain why no one said goodnight to Mr. Paradine. Do you really wish to maintain that nothing had occurred which would account for these things—nothing of an unpleasant nature?”

She looked him straight in the face and said,

“There was nothing.”

The family were just across the passage in Phyllida’s sitting-room. The instinct to keep together, to avoid being singled out, had taken them there—the old primitive herd instinct. This time no one sat down. Mark leaned on the mantelpiece and looked into the fire, his shoulder turned upon the room. Dicky still twisted a bit of string. There was one of those horrid silences which no one breaks because no one wants to be the first to voice the common thought. The fact that Albert was at a loss for words was enough to keep anyone else from speaking. It had never happened before, and would probably never happen again. He stood there, the last into the room, looking for all the world like something out of the family album. There was the same stiffness, the fixed regard, the attempt at an easy pose.

It was Brenda who spoke for everyone present. In blunt and heartfelt tones she exclaimed,

“I wish we knew what Aunt Grace was saying to him.”

Her brother turned a frowning look upon her.

“She’ll say what we agreed to say—why shouldn’t she?”

Albert Pearson came a little farther into the room.

“It’s most unfortunate that we hadn’t a little longer to talk things over. Dr. Frith was being very positive about its not being an accident, and when they got it out of Lane how early the party had broken up, I could see they were going to ask a lot of questions. Of course we don’t want to say what isn’t true, but we don’t want to stir up trouble either.”

Brenda said, “What about Irene—and Lydia? Suppose he goes and talks to them? Hadn’t you better ring up and tell them to be careful what they say?”

Frank Ambrose said, “No.”

“Well, I should.”

“Too risky. Besides, the telephone’s out of order—at least it was last night.”

Brenda hunched her shoulder.

“Then I don’t mind betting they give the show away.”

“Lydia’s got too much sense,” said Dicky.

She laughed unpleasantly.

“And Irene hasn’t any sense at all!”

In quite a quiet undertone, Frank Ambrose said,

“Hold your tongue, will you!”

Elliot Wray surveyed the room with a sense of impending disaster—Phyllida’s pretty pastel room which he hated because it wasn’t Phyllida’s room at all. It was the setting devised by Grace Paradine—her taste, her furniture, her idea of what a young girl’s room should be; sweet pea colouring, a little mauve, a little pink, a touch of purple, and a great deal of blue. He thought, “We’ve bitten off more than we can chew—that’s about the size of it. If he goes through the whole ten of us one at a time, somebody’s bound to crash.”

Then Phyllida had her hand on his arm and was saying in a voice which was only meant for him,

“Elliot, I’m no good at telling lies—I don’t think I can.”

He turned his eyes on her with a spark of angry humour.

“Oh, you can’t, can’t you?”

She shook her head.

“Why can’t we just tell the truth?”

His hand came down over hers. He said almost inaudibly, but with an extraordinary effect of anger,

“You’re not to say you went down to the study— do you hear?”

“Well, I won’t unless he asks me.”

“He won’t ask you—why should he?”

“I don’t know—he might.”

“Then you’ll say ‘No’!”

She shook her head.

“I can’t, Elliot—honest I can’t.”

“George Washington complex?” His grip was hurting her. “Don’t be a damned fool, Phyl!”

She said, “You’re hurting me,” and got a hard “I’d like to wring your neck!”

He was not prepared for her looking up at him with a smile. What can you do when a creature looks at you like that? And what business had she to smile at him when he had just called her a damned fool and said he would like to wring her neck? He let go of her abruptly as Brenda repeated her opening remark,

“I do wish we knew what Aunt Grace was saying.”

Superintendent Vyner, having finished with Miss Paradine, was considering whom he would see next. He had no intention of allowing her to rejoin the rest of the family, and had devised a plan for preventing it. Sergeant Manners was called in and told that Miss Paradine had kindly consented to make a statement. Even without previous instructions Manners could be relied upon to take an almost unbelievable time over this routine exercise, being a slow writer and very punctilious about getting everything down correctly. People who tried to hustle him came out of the encounter rather the worse for wear.

The Superintendent’s own plan was to select the next person to be interviewed and proceed to the study. But he had only taken a couple of steps along the passage, when he heard the sound of voices from the hall. What he saw when he looked over the balustrade sent him downstairs without further ado. As he came down the last of the flight he encountered Mrs. Frank Ambrose and her sister coming up. Both ladies had made some attempt at mourning, Mrs. Ambrose wearing a fur coat and a small black turban, and Miss Pennington having on a grey tweed coat and skirt and a white scarf. She had nothing on her head but her own bright copper curls. The Superintendent stopped them, blocking the way.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Ambrose. I am very sorry to be here on such a painful errand. Can you spare me a few minutes of your time? If you will do so, I can take your statement and get it over.”

Irene’s eyes opened very widely indeed.

“My statement?”

“Why, yes, Mrs. Ambrose. In the case of a sudden death like this I would like to have a statement from everyone who was dining here last night. If you wouldn’t mind coming into the study—I needn’t detain you for more than a few minutes—”

She opened her mouth and shut it again. Two steps higher up Lydia looked down at them. She was pale and she wore no make-up. Without it she appeared a little, insignificant creature. The thought passed through the Superintendent’s head. Then he met the steady grey-green eyes and changed his mind. She was all there, and she’d got spunk. Not so much change to be got out of Miss Lydia Pennington. He turned back to Irene, standing there with her mouth a little open, and considered that he’d picked the right sister. Well, he’d best get her along to the study before anyone had a chance of telling her what to say.

Lydia’s voice pursued him.

“Don’t you want me too?”

It gave him a good deal of pleasure to reply,

“Not at present, thank you, Miss Pennington.”