There was a murmur1 of voices from the big drawing room. I hesitated butdid not go in. I wandered down the passage and, led by some impulse, Ipushed open a baize door. The passage beyond was dark, but suddenly adoor opened showing a big lighted kitchen. In the doorway2 stood an oldwoman—a rather bulky old woman. She had a very clean white apron3 tiedround her ample waist and the moment I saw her I knew that everythingwas all right. It is the feeling that a good Nannie can always give you. I amthirty-five, but I felt just like a reassured4 little boy of four.
As far as I knew, Nannie had never seen me, but she said at once:
“It’s Mr. Charles, isn’t it? Come into the kitchen and let me give you acup of tea.”
It was a big happy-feeling kitchen. I sat down by the centre table andNannie brought me a cup of tea and two sweet biscuits on a plate. I feltmore than ever that I was in the nursery again. Everything was all right—and the terrors of the dark and the unknown were no more with me.
“Miss Sophia will be glad you’ve come,” said Nannie. “She’s been gettingrather overexcited.” She added disapprovingly6: “They’re all overexcited.”
I looked over my shoulder.
“Where’s Josephine? She came in with me.”
Nannie made a disapproving5 clacking noise with her tongue.
“Listening at doors and writing down things in that silly little book shecarries about with her,” she said. “She ought to have gone to school andhad children of her own age to play with. I’ve said so to Miss Edith and sheagrees—but the master would have it that she was best here in her home.”
“I suppose he’s very fond of her,” I said.
“He was, sir. He was fond of them all.”
I looked slightly astonished, wondering why Philip’s affection for his off-spring was put so definitely in the past. Nannie saw my expression andflushing slightly, she said:
“When I said the master, it was old Mr. Leonides I meant.”
Before I could respond to that, the door opened with a rush and Sophiacame in.
“Oh, Charles,” she said, and then quickly: “Oh, Nannie, I’m so glad he’scome.”
“I know you are, love.”
Nannie gathered up a lot of pots and pans and went off into a scullerywith them. She shut the door behind her.
I got up from the table and went over to Sophia. I put my arms roundher and held her to me.
“Dearest,” I said. “You’re trembling. What is it?”
Sophia said:
“I’m frightened, Charles. I’m frightened.”
“I love you,” I said. “If I could take you away—”
She drew apart and shook her head.
“No, that’s impossible. We’ve got to see this through. But you know,Charles, I don’t like it. I don’t like the feeling that someone—someone inthis house—someone I see and speak to every day is a cold-blooded, calcu-lating poisoner….”
And I didn’t know how to answer that. To someone like Sophia one cangive no easy meaningless reassurances7.
She said: “If only one knew—”
“That must be the worst of it,” I agreed.
“You know what really frightens me?” she whispered. “It’s that we maynever know….”
I could visualize8 easily what a nightmare that would be … And it seemedto me highly probable that it never might be known who had killed old Le-onides.
But it also reminded me of a question I had meant to put to Sophia on apoint that had interested me.
“Tell me, Sophia,” I said. “How many people in this house knew aboutthe eserine eyedrops—I mean (a) that your grandfather had them, and (b)that they were poisonous and what would be a fatal dose?”
“I see what you’re getting at, Charles. But it won’t work. You see, we allknew.”
“Well, yes, vaguely9, I suppose, but specifically—”
“We knew specifically. We were all up with grandfather one day for cof-fee after lunch. He liked all the family round him, you know. And his eyeshad been giving him a lot of trouble. And Brenda got the eserine to put adrop in each eye, and Josephine, who always asks questions abouteverything, said: ‘Why does it say “Eyedrops — not to be taken” on thebottle?’ And grandfather smiled and said: ‘If Brenda were to make a mis-take and inject eyedrops into me one day instead of insulin—I suspect Ishould give a big gasp10, and go rather blue in the face and then die, becauseyou see, my heart isn’t very strong.’ And Josephine said: ‘Oo,’ and grand-father went on: ‘So we must be careful that Brenda does not give me an in-jection of eserine instead of insulin, mustn’t we?’” Sophia paused and thensaid: “We were all there listening. You see? We all heard!”
I did see. I had some faint idea in my mind that just a little specializedknowledge would have been needed. But now it was borne in upon methat old Leonides had actually supplied the blueprint11 for his own murder.
The murderer had not had to think out a scheme, or to plan or devise any-thing. A simple easy method of causing death had been supplied by thevictim himself.
I drew a deep breath. Sophia, catching12 my thought, said: “Yes, it’s ratherhorrible, isn’t it?”
“You know, Sophia,” I said slowly. “There’s just one thing does strikeme.”
“Yes?”
“That you’re right, and that it couldn’t have been Brenda. She couldn’tdo it exactly that way—when you’d all listened—when you’d all remem-ber.”
“I don’t know about that. She is rather dumb in some ways, you know.”
“Not as dumb as all that,” I said. “No, it couldn’t have been Brenda.”
Sophia moved away from me.
“You don’t want it to be Brenda, do you?” she asked.
And what could I say? I couldn’t—no, I couldn’t—say flatly: “Yes, I hopeit is Brenda.”
Why couldn’t I? Just the feeling that Brenda was all alone on one side,and the concentrated animosity of the powerful Leonides family was ar-rayed against her on the other side. Chivalry13? A feeling for the weaker?
For the defenceless? I remembered her sitting on the sofa in her expensiverich mourning, the hopelessness in her voice—the fear in her eyes.
Nannie came back rather opportunely14 from the scullery. I don’t knowwhether she sensed a certain strain between myself and Sophia.
She said disapprovingly:
“Talking murders and suchlike. Forget about it, that’s what I say. Leaveit to the police. It’s their nasty business, not yours.”
“Oh, Nannie—don’t you realize that someone in this house is a mur-derer—”
“Nonsense, Miss Sophia, I’ve no patience with you. Isn’t the front dooropen all the time—all the doors open, nothing locked—asking for thievesand burglars?”
“But it couldn’t have been a burglar, nothing was stolen. Besides, whyshould a burglar come in and poison somebody?”
“I didn’t say it was a burglar, Miss Sophia. I only said all the doors wereopen. Anyone could have got in. If you ask me it was the Communists.”
Nannie nodded her head in a satisfied way.
“Why on earth should Communists want to murder poor grandfather?”
“Well, everyone says that they’re at the bottom of everything that goeson. But if it wasn’t the Communists, mark my word, it was the Catholics.
The Scarlet15 Woman of Babylon, that’s what they are.”
With the air of one saying the last word, Nannie disappeared again intothe scullery.
Sophia and I laughed.
“A good old Black Protestant,” I said.
“Yes, isn’t she? Come on, Charles, come into the drawing room. There’s akind of family conclave16 going on. It was scheduled for this evening—butit’s started prematurely17.”
“I’d better not butt18 in, Sophia.”
“If you’re ever going to marry into the family, you’d better see just whatit’s like when it has the gloves off.”
“What’s it all about?”
“Roger’s affairs. You seem to have been mixed up in them already. Butyou’re crazy to think that Roger would ever have killed grandfather. Why,Roger adored him.”
“I didn’t really think Roger had. I thought Clemency19 might have.”
“Only because I put it into your head. But you’re wrong there too. I don’tthink Clemency will mind a bit if Roger loses all his money. I think she’llactually be rather pleased. She’s got a queer kind of passion for not havingthings. Come on.”
When Sophia and I entered the drawing room, the voices that werespeaking stopped abruptly20. Everybody looked at us.
They were all there. Philip sitting in a big crimson21 brocaded armchairbetween the windows, his beautiful face set in a cold, stern mask. Helooked like a judge about to pronounce sentence. Roger was astride a bigpouffe by the fireplace. He had ruffled22 up his hair between his fingers un-til it stood up all over his head. His left trouser leg was rucked up and histie askew23. He looked flushed and argumentative. Clemency sat beyondhim, her slight form seemed too slender for the big stuffed chair. She waslooking away from the others and seemed to be studying the wall panelswith a dispassionate gaze. Edith sat in a grandfather chair, bolt upright.
She was knitting with incredible energy, her lips pressed tightly together.
The most beautiful thing in the room to look at was Magda and Eustace.
They looked like a portrait by Gainsborough. They sat together on the sofa—the dark, handsome boy with a sullen24 expression on his face, and besidehim, one arm thrust out along the back of the sofa, sat Magda, the Duchessof Three Gables in a picture gown of taffetas with one small foot in a bro-caded slipper25 thrust out in front of her.
Philip frowned.
“Sophia,” he said, “I’m sorry, but we are discussing family matterswhich are of a private nature.”
Miss de Haviland’s needles clicked. I prepared to apologize and retreat.
Sophia forestalled26 me. Her voice was clear and determined27.
“Charles and I,” she said, “hope to get married. I want Charles to behere.”
“And why on earth not?” cried Roger, springing up from his pouffe withexplosive energy. “I keep telling you, Philip, there’s nothing private aboutthis! The whole world is going to know tomorrow or the day after. Any-way, my dear boy,” he came and put a friendly hand on my shoulder, “youknow all about it. You were there this morning.”
“Do tell me,” cried Magda, leaning forward. “What is it like at ScotlandYard? One always wonders. A table? A desk? Chairs? What kind of cur-tains? No flowers, I suppose? A dictaphone?”
“Put a sock in it, Mother,” said Sophia. “And anyway, you told VavasourJones to cut that Scotland Yard scene. You said it was an anticlimax28.”
“It makes it too like a detective play,” said Magda. “Edith Thompson isdefinitely a psychological drama—or psychological thriller—which do youthink sounds best?”
“You were there this morning?” Philip asked me sharply. “Why? Oh, ofcourse—your father—”
He frowned. I realized more clearly than ever that my presence was un-welcome, but Sophia’s hand was clenched29 on my arm.
Clemency moved a chair forward.
“Do sit down,” she said.
I gave her a grateful glance and accepted.
“You may say what you like,” said Miss de Haviland, apparently30 goingon from where they had all left off, “but I do think we ought to respect Ar-istide’s wishes. When this will business is straightened out, as far as I amconcerned, my legacy31 is entirely32 at your disposal, Roger.”
Roger tugged33 his hair in a frenzy34.
“No Aunt Edith. No!” he cried.
“I wish I could say the same,” said Philip, “but one has to take everyfactor into consideration—”
“Dear old Phil, don’t you understand? I’m not going to take a pennyfrom anyone.”
“Of course he can’t!” snapped Clemency.
“Anyway, Edith,” said Magda. “If the will is straightened out, he’ll havehis own legacy.”
“But it can’t possibly be straightened out in time, can it?” asked Eustace.
“You don’t know anything about it, Eustace,” said Philip.
“The boy’s absolutely right,” cried Roger. “He’s put his finger on thespot. Nothing can avert35 the crash. Nothing.”
He spoke36 with a kind of relish37.
“There is really nothing to discuss,” said Clemency.
“Anyway,” said Roger, “what does it matter?”
“I should have thought it mattered a good deal,” said Philip, pressing hislips together.
“No,” said Roger. “No! Does anything matter compared with the fact thatfather is dead? Father is dead! And we sit here discussing mere38 moneymatters!”
A faint colour rose in Philip’s pale cheeks.
“We are only trying to help,” he said stiffly.
“I know, Phil, old boy, I know. But there’s nothing anyone can do. Solet’s call it a day.”
“I suppose,” said Philip, “that I could raise a certain amount of money.
Securities have gone down a good deal and some of my capital is tied up insuch a way that I can’t touch it: Magda’s settlement and so on—but—”
Magda said quickly:
“Of course you can’t raise the money, darling. It would be absurd to try—and not very fair on the children.”
“I tell you I’m not asking anyone for anything!” shouted Roger. “I’mhoarse with telling you so. I’m quite content that things should take theircourse.”
“It’s a question of prestige,” said Philip. “Father’s. Ours.”
“It wasn’t a family business. It was solely39 my concern.”
“Yes,” said Philip, looking at him. “It was entirely your concern.”
Edith de Haviland got up and said: “I think we’ve discussed thisenough.”
There was in her voice that authentic40 note of authority that never failsto produce its effect.
Philip and Magda got up. Eustace lounged out of the room and I noticedthe stiffness of his gait. He was not exactly lame41, but his walk was a halt-ing one.
Roger linked his arm in Philip’s and said:
“You’ve been a brick, Phil, even to think of such a thing!” The brotherswent out together.
Magda murmured, “Such a fuss!” as she followed them, and Sophia saidthat she must see about my room.
Edith de Haviland stood rolling up her knitting. She looked towards meand I thought she was going to speak to me. There was something almostlike appeal in her glance. However, she changed her mind, sighed, andwent out after the others.
Clemency had moved over to the window and stood looking out into thegarden. I went over and stood beside her. She turned her head slightly to-wards me.
“Thank goodness that’s over,” she said—and added with distaste: “Whata preposterous42 room this is!”
“Don’t you like it?”
“I can’t breathe in it. There’s always a smell of half-dead flowers anddust.”
I thought she was unjust to the room. But I knew what she meant. It wasvery definitely an interior.
It was a woman’s room, exotic, soft, shut away from the rude blasts ofoutside weather. It was not a room that a man would be happy in for long.
It was not a room where you could relax and read the newspaper andsmoke a pipe and put up your feet. Nevertheless I preferred it to Clem-ency’s own abstract expression of herself upstairs. On the whole I prefer aboudoir to an operating theatre.
She said, looking round:
“It’s just a stage set. A background for Magda to play her scenesagainst.” She looked at me. “You realize, don’t you, what we’ve just beendoing? Act II—the family conclave. Magda arranged it. It didn’t mean athing. There was nothing to talk about, nothing to discuss. It’s all settled—finished.”
There was no sadness in her voice. Rather there was satisfaction. Shecaught my glance.
“Oh, don’t you understand?” she said impatiently. “We’re free—at last!
Don’t you understand that Roger’s been miserable43—absolutely miserable—for years? He never had any aptitude44 for business. He likes things likehorses and cows and pottering round in the country. But he adored hisfather—they all did. That’s what’s wrong with this house—too much fam-ily. I don’t mean that the old man was a tyrant45, or preyed46 upon them, orbullied them. He didn’t. He gave them money and freedom. He was de-voted to them. And they kept on being devoted47 to him.”
“Is there anything wrong in that?”
“I think there is. I think, when your children have grown up, that youshould cut away from them, efface48 yourself, slink away, force them to for-get you.”
“Force them? That’s rather drastic, isn’t it? Isn’t coercion49 as bad one wayas another?”
“If he hadn’t made himself such a personality—”
“You can’t make yourself a personality,” I said. “He was a personality.”
“He was too much of a personality for Roger. Roger worshipped him. Hewanted to do everything his father wanted him to do, he wanted to be thekind of son his father wanted. And he couldn’t. His father made over Asso-ciated Catering50 to him—it was the old man’s particular joy and pride, andRoger tried hard to carry on in his father’s footsteps. But he hadn’t got thatkind of ability. In business matters Roger is—yes, I’ll say it plainly—a fool.
And it nearly broke his heart. He’s been miserable for years, struggling,seeing the whole thing go down the hill, having sudden wonderful ‘ideas’
and ‘schemes’ which always went wrong and made it worse than ever. It’sa terrible thing to feel you’re a failure year after year. You don’t knowhow unhappy he’s been. I do.”
Again she turned and faced me.
“You thought, you actually suggested to the police, that Roger wouldhave killed his father—for money! You don’t know how—how absolutelyridiculous that is!”
“I do know it now,” I said humbly51.
“When Roger knew he couldn’t stave it off any more—that the crash wasbound to come, he was actually relieved. Yes, he was. He worried abouthis father’s knowing—but not about anything else. He was looking for-ward to the new life we were going to live.”
Her face quivered a little and her voice softened52.
“Where were you going?” I asked.
“To Barbados. A distant cousin of mine died a short time ago and left mea tiny estate out there—oh, nothing much. But it was somewhere to go.
We’d have been desperately53 poor, but we’d have scratched a living—itcosts very little just to live. We’d have been together—unworried, awayfrom them all.”
She sighed.
“Roger is a ridiculous person. He would worry about me—about my be-ing poor. I suppose he’s the Leonides’ attitude to money too firmly in hismind. When my first husband was alive, we were terribly poor—and Ro-ger thinks it was so brave and wonderful of me! He doesn’t realize that Iwas happy—really happy! I’ve never been so happy since. And yet—Inever loved Richard as I love Roger.”
Her eyes half-closed. I was aware of the intensity54 of her feeling.
She opened her eyes, looked at me and said:
“So you see, I would never have killed anyone for money. I don’t likemoney.”
I was quite sure that she meant exactly what she said. Clemency Le-onides was one of those rare people to whom money does not appeal.
They dislike luxury, prefer austerity and are suspicious of possessions.
Still, there are many to whom money has no personal appeal, but whocan be tempted55 by the power it confers.
I said: “You mightn’t want money for yourself — but wisely directed,money can do a lot of interesting things. It can endow research, for ex-ample.”
I had suspected that Clemency might be a fanatic56 about her work, butshe merely said:
“I doubt if endowments ever do much good. They’re usually spent in thewrong way. The things that are worthwhile are usually accomplished57 bysomeone with enthusiasm and drive—and with natural vision. Expensiveequipment and training and experiment never does what you’d imagine itmight do. The spending of it usually gets into the wrong hands.”
“Will you mind giving up your work when you go to Barbados?” I asked.
“You’re still going, I presume?”
“Oh, yes, as soon as the police will let us. No, I shan’t mind giving up mywork at all. Why should I? I wouldn’t like to be idle, but I shan’t be idle inBarbados.”
She added impatiently:
“Oh, if only this could all be cleared up quickly and we could get away.”
“Clemency,” I said, “have you any idea at all who did do this? Grantingthat you and Roger had no hand in it (and really I can’t see any reason tothink you had), surely, with your intelligence, you must have some idea ofwho did?”
She gave me a rather peculiar58 look, a darting59, sideways glance. Whenshe spoke her voice had lost its spontaneity. It was awkward, rather em-barrassed.
“One can’t make guesses, it’s unscientific,” she said. “One can only saythat Brenda and Laurence are the obvious suspects.”
“So you think they did it?”
Clemency shrugged60 her shoulders.
She stood for a moment as though listening, then she went out of theroom, passing Edith de Haviland in the doorway.
Edith came straight over to me.
“I want to talk to you,” she said.
My father’s words leapt into my mind. Was this—But Edith de Haviland was going on:
“I hope you didn’t get the wrong impression,” she said. “About Philip, Imean. Philip is rather difficult to understand. He may seem to you re-served and cold, but that is not so at all. It’s just a manner. He can’t helpit.”
“I really hadn’t thought—” I began.
But she swept on:
“Just now—about Roger. It isn’t really that he’s grudging61. He’s neverbeen mean about money. And he’s really a dear—he’s always been a dear—but he needs understanding.”
I looked at her with the air, I hope, of one who was willing to under-stand. She went on:
“It’s partly, I think, from having been the second of the family. There’soften something about a second child—they start handicapped. He adoredhis father, you see. Of course, all the children adored Aristide and he ad-ored them. But Roger was his especial pride and joy. Being the eldest—thefirst. And I think Philip felt it. He drew back right into himself. He beganto like books and the past and things that were well divorced from every-day life. I think he suffered—children do suffer….”
She paused and went on:
“What I really mean, I suppose, is that he’s always been jealous of Roger.
I think perhaps he doesn’t know it himself. But I think the fact that Rogerhas come a cropper—oh, it seems an odious62 thing to say and really I’msure he doesn’t realize it himself—but I think perhaps Philip isn’t as sorryabout it as he ought to be.”
“You mean really that he’s rather pleased Roger has made a fool of him-self.”
“Yes,” said Miss de Haviland. “I mean just exactly that.”
She added, frowning a little:
“It distressed63 me, you know, that he didn’t at once offer to help hisbrother.”
“Why should he?” I said. “After all, Roger has made a muck of things.
He’s a grown man. There are no children to consider. If he were ill or inreal want, of course his family would help—but I’ve no doubt Roger wouldreally much prefer to start afresh entirely on his own.”
“Oh! he would. It’s only Clemency he minds about. And Clemency is anextraordinary creature. She really likes being uncomfortable and havingonly one utility teacup to drink out of. Modern, I suppose. She’s no senseof the past, no sense of beauty.”
I felt her shrewd eyes looking me up and down.
“This is a dreadful ordeal64 for Sophia,” she said. “I am so sorry her youthshould be dimmed by it. I love them all, you know. Roger and Philip, andnow Sophia and Eustace and Josephine. All the dear children. Marcia’schildren. Yes, I love them dearly.” She paused and then added sharply:
“But, mind you, this side idolatry.”
She turned abruptly and went. I had the feeling that she had meantsomething by her last remark that I did not quite understand.
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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disapprovingly
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| adv.不以为然地，不赞成地，非难地 | |
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reassurances
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| n.消除恐惧或疑虑( reassurance的名词复数 )；恢复信心；使人消除恐惧或疑虑的事物；使人恢复信心的事物 | |
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visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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blueprint
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| n.蓝图，设计图，计划；vt.制成蓝图，计划 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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prematurely
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butt
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clemency
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abruptly
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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ruffled
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askew
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sullen
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slipper
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forestalled
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determined
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anticlimax
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| n.令人扫兴的结局；突降法 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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coercion
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| n.强制，高压统治 | |
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catering
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| n. 给养 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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