‘You don’t think they’ll be right in doing so?’
‘I simply can’t tell. She’s always seemed to me a singularly stupid and commonplace young woman—rather conventional. Not my idea of a poisoner. Still, after all, if a young woman of twenty-four marries a man close on eighty, it’s fairly obvious that she’s marrying him for his money. In the normal course of events she could have expected to become a rich widow fairly soon. But Aristide was a singularly tough old man. His diabetes wasn’t getting any worse. He really looked like living to be a hundred. I suppose she got tired of waiting …’
‘In that case,’ I said, and stopped.
‘In that case,’ said Miss de Haviland briskly, ‘it will be more or less all right. Annoying publicity, of course. But after all, she isn’t one of the family.’
‘You’ve no other ideas?’ I asked.
‘What other ideas should I have?’
I wondered. I had a suspicion that there might be more going on under the battered felt hat than I knew.
Behind the perky, almost disconnected utterance, there was, I thought, a very shrewd brain at work. Just for a moment I even wondered whether Miss de Haviland had poisoned Aristide Leonides herself …
It did not seem an impossible idea. At the back of my mind was the way she had ground the bindweed into the soil with her heel with a kind of vindictive thoroughness.
I remembered the word Sophia had used. Ruthlessness.
I stole a sideways glance at Edith de Haviland.
Given good and sufficient reason … But what exactly would seem to Edith de Haviland good and sufficient reason?
To answer that, I should have to know her better.
CHAPTER 6
The front door was open. We passed through it into a rather surprisingly spacious hall. It was furnished with restraint—well-polished dark oak and gleaming brass. At the back, where the staircase would normally appear, was a white panelled wall with a door in it.
‘My brother-in-law’s part of the house,’ said Miss de Haviland. ‘The ground floor is Philip and Magda’s.’
We went through a doorway on the left into a large drawing-room. It had pale-blue panelled walls, furniture covered in heavy brocade, and on every available table and on the walls were hung photographs and pictures of actors, dancers, and stage scenes and designs. A Degas of ballet dancers hung over the mantelpiece. There were masses of flowers, enormous brown chrysanthemums and great vases of carnations.
‘I suppose,’ said Miss de Haviland, ‘that you want to see Philip?’
Did I want to see Philip? I had no idea. All I had wanted to do was to see Sophia. That I had done. She had given emphatic encouragement to the Old Man’s plan—but she had now receded from the scene and was presumably somewhere telephoning about fish, having given me no indication of how to proceed. Was I to approach Philip Leonides as a young man anxious to marry his daughter, or as a casual friend who had dropped in (surely not at such a moment!) or as an associate of the police?
Miss de Haviland gave me no time to consider her question. It was, indeed, not a question at all, but more an assertion. Miss de Haviland, I judged, was more inclined to assert than to question.
‘We’ll go to the library,’ she said.
She led me out of the drawing-room, along a corridor and in through another door.
It was a big room, full of books. The books did not confine themselves to the bookcases that reached up to the ceiling. They were on chairs and tables and even on the floor. And yet there was no sense of disarray about them.
The room was cold. There was some smell absent in it that I was conscious of having expected. It smelt of the mustiness of old books and just a little beeswax. In a second or two I realized what I missed. It was the scent of tobacco. Philip Leonides was not a smoker.
He got up from behind his table as we entered—a tall man, aged somewhere around fifty, an extraordinarily handsome man. Everyone had laid so much emphasis on the ugliness of Aristide Leonides, that for some reason I expected his son to be ugly too. Certainly I was not prepared for this perfection of feature—the straight nose, the flawless line of jaw, the fair hair touched with grey that swept back from a well-shaped forehead.
‘This is Charles Hayward, Philip,’ said Edith de Haviland.
‘Ah, how do you do?’
I could not tell if he had ever heard of me. The hand he gave me was cold. His face was quite incurious. It made me rather nervous. He stood there, patient and uninterested.
‘Where are those awful policemen?’ demanded Miss de Haviland. ‘Have they been in here?’
‘I believe Chief Inspector’—(he glanced down at a card on the desk)—‘er—Taverner is coming to talk to me presently.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘I’ve no idea, Aunt Edith. Upstairs, I suppose.’
‘With Brenda?’
‘I really don’t know.’
Looking at Philip Leonides, it seemed quite impossible that a murder could have been committed anywhere in his vicinity.
‘Is Magda up yet?’
‘I don’t know. She’s not usually up before eleven.’
‘That sounds like her,’ said Edith de Haviland.
What sounded like Mrs Philip Leonides was a high voice talking very rapidly and approaching fast. The door behind me burst open and a woman came in. I don’t know how she managed to give the impression of its being three women rather than one who entered.
She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder and was wearing a peach satin négligé which she was holding up with one hand. A cascade of Titian hair rippled down her back. Her face had that almost shocking air of nudity that a woman’s has nowadays when it is not made up at all. Her eyes were blue and enormous and she was talking very rapidly in a husky, rather attractive voice with a very clear enunciation.
‘Darling, I can’t stand it—I simply can’t stand it—just think of the notices—it isn’t in the papers yet, but of course it will be—and I simply can’t make up my mind what I ought to wear at the inquest—very, very subdued—not black though, perhaps dark purple—and I simply haven’t got a coupon left—I’ve lost the address of that dreadful man who sells them to me—you know, the garage somewhere near Shaftesbury Avenue—and if I went up there in the car the police would follow me, and they might ask the most awkward questions, mightn’t they? I mean, what could one say? How calm you are, Philip! How can you be so calm? Don’t you realize we can leave this awful house now? Freedom—freedom! Oh, how unkind—the poor old Sweetie—of course we’d never have left him while he was alive. He really did dote on us, didn’t he—in spite of all the trouble that woman upstairs tried to make between us. I’m quite sure that if we had gone away and left him to her, he’d have cut us right out of everything. Horrible creature! After all, poor old Sweetie Pie was just on ninety—all the family feeling in the world couldn’t have stood up against a dreadful woman who was on the spot. You know, Philip, I really believe that this would be a wonderful opportunity to put on the Edith Thompson play. This murder would give us a lot of advance publicity. Bildenstein said he could get the Thespian—that dreary play in verse about miners is coming off any minute—it’s a wonderful part—wonderful. I know they say I must always play comedy because of my nose—but you know there’s quite a lot of comedy to be got out of Edith Thompson—I don’t think the author realized that—comedy always heightens the suspense. I know just how I’d play it—commonplace, silly, make-believe up to the last minute and then—’
She cast out an arm—the cigarette fell out of the holder on to the polished mahogany of Philip’s desk and began to burn it. Impassively he reached for it and dropped it into the wastepaper basket.
‘And then,’ whispered Magda Leonides, her eyes suddenly widening, her face stiffening, ‘just terror …’
The stark fear stayed on her face for about twenty seconds, then her face relaxed, crumpled, a bewildered child was about to burst into tears.
Suddenly all emotion was wiped away as though by a sponge and, turning to me, she asked in a businesslike tone:
‘Don’t you think that would be the way to play Edith Thompson?’
I said I thought that would be exactly the way to play Edith Thompson. At the moment I could only remember very vaguely who Edith Thompson was, but I was anxious to start off well with Sophia’s mother.
‘Rather like Brenda, really, wasn’t she?’ said Magda. ‘D’you know, I never thought of that. It’s very interesting. Shall I point that out to the inspector?’
The man behind the desk frowned very slightly.
‘There’s really no need, Magda,’ he said, ‘for you to see him at all. I can tell him anything he wants to know.’
‘Not see him?’ Her voice went up. ‘But of course I must see him! Darling, darling, you’re so terribly unimaginative! You don’t realize the importance of details. He’ll want to know exactly how and when everything happened, all the little things one noticed and wondered about at the time—’
‘Mother,’ said Sophia, coming through the open door, ‘you’re not to tell the inspector a lot of lies.’
‘Sophia—darling …’
‘I know, precious, that you’ve got it all set and that you’re ready to give a most beautiful performance. But you’ve got it wrong. Quite wrong.’
‘Nonsense. You don’t know—’
‘I do know. You’ve got to play it quite differently, darling. Subdued—saying very little—holding it all back—on your guard—protecting the family.’
Magda Leonides’ face showed the naïve perplexity of a child.
‘Darling,’ she said, ‘do you really think—’
‘Yes, I do. Throw it away. That’s the idea.’
Sophia added, as a little pleased smile began to show on her mother’s face:
‘I’ve made you some chocolate. It’s in the drawing-room.’
‘Oh—good—I’m starving—’
She paused in the doorway.
‘You don’t know,’ she said, and the words appeared to be addressed either to me or to the bookshelf behind my head, ‘how lovely it is to have a daughter!’
On this exit line she went out.
‘God knows,’ said Miss de Haviland, ‘what she will say to the police!’
‘She’ll be all right,’ said Sophia.
‘She might say anything.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Sophia. ‘She’ll play it the way the producer says. I’m the producer!’
She went out after her mother, then wheeled back to say:
‘Here’s Chief Inspector Taverner to see you, Father. You don’t mind if Charles stays, do you?’
I thought that a very faint air of bewilderment showed on Philip Leonides’ face. It well might! But his incurious habit served me in good stead. He murmured:
‘Oh certainly—certainly,’ in a rather vague voice.
Chief Inspector Taverner came in, solid, dependable, and with an air of businesslike promptitude that was somehow soothing.
‘Just a little unpleasantness,’ his manner seemed to say, ‘and then we shall be out of the house for good—and nobody will be more pleased than I shall. We don’t want to hang about, I can assure you …’
I don’t know how he managed, without any words at all, but merely by drawing up a chair to the desk, to convey what he did, but it worked. I sat down unobtrusively a little way off.
‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’ said Philip.
Miss de Haviland said abruptly:
‘You don’t want me, Chief Inspector?’
‘Not just at the moment, Miss de Haviland. Later, if I might have a few words with you—’
‘Of course. I shall be upstairs.’
She went out, shutting the door behind her.
‘Well, Chief Inspector?’ Philip repeated.
‘I know you’re a very busy gentleman and I don’t want to disturb you for long. But I may mention to you in confidence that our suspicions are confirmed. Your father did not die a natural death. His death was the result of an overdose of physostigmine—more usually known as eserine.’
Philip bowed his head. He showed no particular emotion.
‘I don’t know whether that suggests anything to you?’ Taverner went on.
‘What should it suggest? My own view is that my father must have taken the poison by accident.’
‘You really think so, Mr Leonides?’
‘Yes, it seems to me perfectly possible. He was close on ninety, remember, and with very imperfect eyesight.’
‘So he emptied the contents of his eyedrop bottle into an insulin bottle. Does that really seem to you a credible suggestion, Mr Leonides?’
Philip did not reply. His face became even more impassive.
Taverner went on:
‘We have found the eyedrop bottle, empty—in the dustbin, with no fingerprints on it. That in itself is curious. In the normal way there should have been fingerprints. Certainly your father’s, possibly his wife’s, or the valet …’
Philip Leonides looked up.
‘What about the valet?’ he said. ‘What about Johnson?’
‘You are suggesting Johnson as the possible criminal? He certainly had opportunity. But when we come to motive it is different. It was your father’s custom to pay him a bonus every year—each year the bonus was increased. Your father made it clear to him that this was in lieu of any sum that he might otherwise have left him in his will. The bonus now, after seven years’ service, has reached a very considerable sum every year and is still rising. It was obviously to Johnson’s interest that your father should live as long as possible. Moreover, they were on excellent terms, and Johnson’s record of past service is unimpeachable—he is a thoroughly skilled and faithful valet attendant.’ He paused. ‘We do not suspect Johnson.’
Philip replied tonelessly: ‘I see.’
‘Now, Mr Leonides, perhaps you will give me a detailed account of your own movements on the day of your father’s death?’
‘Certainly, Chief Inspector. I was here, in this room, all that day—with the exception of meals, of course.’
‘Did you see your father at all?’
‘I said good morning to him after breakfast as was my custom.’
‘Were you alone with him then?’
‘My—er—stepmother was in the room.’
‘Did he seem quite as usual?’
With a slight hint of irony, Philip replied:
‘He showed no foreknowledge that he was to be murdered that day.’
‘Is your father’s portion of the house entirely separate from this?’
‘Yes, the only access to it is through the door in the hall.’
‘Is that door kept locked?’
‘No.’
‘Never?’
‘I have never known it to be so.’
‘Anyone could go freely between that part of the house and this?’
‘Certainly. It was only separate from the point of view of domestic convenience.’
‘How did you first hear of your father’s death?’
‘My brother Roger, who occupies the west wing of the floor above, came rushing down to tell me that my father had had a sudden seizure. He had difficulty in breathing and seemed very ill.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I telephoned through to the doctor, which nobody seemed to have thought of doing. The doctor was out—but I left a message for him to come as soon as possible. I then went upstairs.’
‘And then?’
‘My father was clearly very ill. He died before the doctor came.’
There was no emotion in Philip’s voice. It was a simple statement of fact.
‘Where was the rest of your family?’
‘My wife was in London. She returned shortly afterwards. Sophia was also absent, I believe. The two younger ones, Eustace and Josephine, were at home.’
‘I hope you won’t misunderstand me, Mr Leonides, if I ask you exactly how your father’s death will affect your financial position.’
‘I quite appreciate that you want to know all the facts. My father made us financially independent a great many years ago. My brother he made chairman and principal shareholder of Associated Catering—his largest company, and put the management of it entirely in his hands. He made over to me what he considered an equivalent sum—actually I think it was a hundred and fifty thousand pounds in various bonds and securities—so that I could use the capital as I chose. He also settled very generous amounts on my two sisters, who have since died.’
‘But he left himself still a very rich man?’
‘No, actually he only retained for himself a comparatively modest income. He said it would give him an interest in life. Since that time’—for the first time a faint smile creased Philip’s lips—‘he has become, as the result of various undertakings, an even richer man than he was before.’
‘Your brother and yourself came here to live. That was not the result of any financial—difficulties?’
‘Certainly not. It was a mere matter of convenience. My father always told us that we were welcome to make a home with him. For various domestic reasons this was a convenient thing for me to do.
‘I was also,’ added Philip deliberately, ‘extremely fond of my father. I came here with my family in 1937. I pay no rent, but I pay my proportion of the rates.’
‘And your brother?’
‘My brother came here as a result of the blitz, when his house in London was bombed in 1943.’
‘Now, Mr Leonides, have you any idea what your father’s testamentary dispositions are?’
‘A very clear idea. He re-made his will in 1946. My father was not a secretive man. He had a great sense of family. He held a family conclave at which his solicitor was also present and who, at his request, made clear to us the terms of the will. These terms I expect you already know. Mr Gaitskill will doubtless have informed you. Roughly, a sum of a hundred thousand pounds free of duty was left to my stepmother in addition to her already very generous marriage settlement. The residue of his property was divided into three portions, one to myself, one to my brother, and a third in trust for the three grandchildren. The estate is a large one, but the death duties, of course, will be very heavy.’
‘Any bequests to servants or to charity?’
‘No bequests of any kind. The wages paid to servants were increased annually if they remained in his service.’
‘You are not—you will excuse my asking—in actual need of money, Mr Leonides?’
‘Income tax, as you know, is somewhat heavy, Chief Inspector—but my income amply suffices for my needs—and for my wife’s. Moreover, my father frequently made us all very generous gifts, and had any emergency arisen, he would have come to the rescue immediately.’
Philip added coldly and clearly:
‘I can assure you that I had no financial reason for desiring my father’s death, Chief Inspector.’
‘I am very sorry, Mr Leonides, if you think I suggested anything of the kind. But we have to get at all the facts. Now I’m afraid I must ask you some rather delicate questions. They refer to the relations between your father and his wife. Were they on happy terms together?’
‘As far as I know, perfectly.’
‘No quarrels?’
‘I do not think so.’
‘There was a—great disparity in age?’
‘There was.’
‘Did you—excuse me—approve of your father’s second marriage?’
‘My approval was not asked.’
‘That is not an answer, Mr Leonides.’
‘Since you press the point, I will say that I considered the marriage unwise.’
‘Did you remonstrate with your father about it?’
‘When I heard of it, it was an accomplished fact.’
‘Rather a shock to you—eh?’
Philip did not reply.
‘Was there any bad feeling about the matter?’
‘My father was at perfect liberty to do as he pleased.’
‘Your relations with Mrs Leonides have been amicable?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘You are on friendly terms with her?’
‘We very seldom meet.’
Chief Inspector Taverner shifted his ground.
‘Can you tell me something about Mr Laurence Brown?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t. He was engaged by my father.’
‘But he was engaged to teach your children, Mr Leonides.’
‘True. My son was a sufferer from infantile paralysis—fortunately a light case—and it was considered not advisable to send him to a public school. My father suggested that he and my young daughter Josephine should have a private tutor—the choice at the time was rather limited—since the tutor in question must be ineligible for military service. This young man’s credentials were satisfactory, my father and my aunt (who has always looked after the children’s welfare) were satisfied, and I acquiesced. I may add that I have no fault to find with his teaching, which has been conscientious and adequate.’
‘His living quarters are in your father’s part of the house, not here?’
‘There was more room up there.’
‘Have you ever noticed—I am sorry to ask this—any signs of intimacy between Laurence Brown and your stepmother?’
‘I have had no opportunity of observing anything of the kind.’
‘Have you heard any gossip or tittle-tattle on the subject?’
‘I don’t listen to gossip or tittle-tattle, Chief Inspector.’
‘Very creditable,’ said Inspector Taverner. ‘So you’ve seen no evil, heard no evil, and aren’t speaking any evil?’
‘If you like to put it that way, Chief Inspector.’
Inspector Taverner got up.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘thank you very much, Mr Leonides.’
I followed him unobtrusively out of the room.
‘Whew,’ said Taverner, ‘he’s a cold fish!’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
