I had not seen my father for some days. I found him busy with thingsother than the Leonides case, and I went in search of Taverner.
Taverner was enjoying a short spell of leisure and was willing to comeout and have a drink with me. I congratulated him on having cleared upthe case and he accepted my congratulation, but his manner remained farfrom jubilant.
“Well, that’s over,” he said. “We’ve got a case. Nobody can deny we’vegot a case.”
“Do you think you’ll get a conviction?”
“Impossible to say. The evidence is circumstantial—it nearly always is ina murder case—bound to be. A lot depends on the impression they makeon the jury.”
“How far do the letters go?”
“At first sight, Charles, they’re pretty damning. There are references totheir life together when her husband’s dead. Phrases like—‘it won’t belong now.’ Mind you, defence counsel will try and twist it the other way—the husband was so old that of course they could reasonably expect him todie. There’s no actual mention of poisoning—not down in black and white— but there are some passages that could mean that. It depends whatjudge we get. If it’s old Carberry he’ll be down on them all through. He’salways very righteous about illicit1 love. I suppose they’ll have Eagles orHumphrey Kerr for the defence—Humphrey is magnificent in these cases—but he likes a gallant2 war record or something of that kind to help himdo his stuff. A conscientious3 objector is going to cramp4 his style. The ques-tion is going to be will the jury like them? You can never tell with juries.
You know, Charles, those two are not really sympathetic characters. She’sa good-looking woman who married a very old man for his money, andBrown is a neurotic5 conscientious objector. The crime is so familiar—soaccording to pattern that you really believe they didn’t do it. Of course,they may decide that he did it and she knew nothing about it—or altern-ately that she did it, and he didn’t know about it—or they may decide thatthey were both in it together.”
“And what do you yourself think?” I asked.
He looked at me with a wooden expressionless face.
“I don’t think anything. I’ve turned in the facts and they went to the DPPand it was decided6 that there was a case. That’s all. I’ve done my duty andI’m out of it. So now you know, Charles.”
But I didn’t know. I saw that for some reason Taverner was unhappy.
It was not until three days later that I unburdened myself to my father.
He himself had never mentioned the case to me. There had been a kind ofrestraint between us—and I thought I knew the reason for it. But I had tobreak down that barrier.
“We’ve got to have this out,” I said. “Taverner’s not satisfied that thosetwo did it—and you’re not satisfied either.”
My father shook his head. He said what Taverner had said: “It’s out ofour hands. There is a case to answer. No question about that.”
“But you don’t—Taverner doesn’t—think that they’re guilty?”
“That’s for a jury to decide.”
“For God’s sake,” I said, “don’t put me off with technical terms. What doyou think—both of you—personally?”
“My personal opinion is no better than yours, Charles.”
“Yes, it is. You’ve more experience.”
“Then I’ll be honest with you. I just—don’t know!”
“They could be guilty?”
“Oh, yes.”
“But you don’t feel sure that they are?”
My father shrugged7 his shoulders.
“How can one be sure?”
“Don’t fence with me, Dad. You’ve been sure other times, haven’t you?
Dead sure? No doubt in your mind at all?”
“Sometimes, yes. Not always.”
“I wish to God you were sure this time.”
“So do I.”
We were silent. I was thinking of those two figures drifting in from thegarden in the dusk. Lonely and haunted and afraid. They had been afraidfrom the start. Didn’t that show a guilty conscience?
But I answered myself: “Not necessarily.” Both Brenda and Laurencewere afraid of life—they had no confidence in themselves, in their abilityto avoid danger and defeat, and they could see, only too clearly, the pat-tern of illicit love leading to murder which might involve them at any mo-ment.
My father spoke8, and his voice was grave and kind:
“Come, Charles,” he said, “let’s face it. You’ve still got it in your mind,haven’t you, that one of the Leonides family is the real culprit?”
“Not really. I only wonder—”
“You do think so. You may be wrong, but you do think so.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because”—I thought about it, trying to see clearly—to bring my wits tobear—“because” (yes, that was it), “because they think so themselves.”
“They think so themselves? That’s interesting. That’s very interesting.
Do you mean that they all suspect each other, or that they know, actually,who did do it?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s all very nebulous and confused. I think—onthe whole—that they try to cover up the knowledge from themselves.”
My father nodded.
“Not Roger,” I said. “Roger wholeheartedly believes it was Brenda andhe wholeheartedly wants her hanged. It’s—it’s a relief to be with Roger,because he’s simple and positive, and hasn’t any reservations in the backof his mind.
“But the others are apologetic, they’re uneasy—they urge me to be surethat Brenda has the best defence—that every possible advantage is givenher—why?”
My father answered: “Because they don’t really, in their hearts, believeshe is guilty … Yes, that’s sound.”
Then he asked quietly:
“Who could have done it? You’ve talked to them all? Who’s the best bet?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “And it’s driving me frantic9. None of them fitsyour ‘sketch of a murderer’ and yet I feel—I do feel—that one of them is amurderer.”
“Sophia?”
“No. Good God, no!”
“The possibility’s in your mind, Charles—yes, it is, don’t deny it. All themore potently10 because you won’t acknowledge it. What about the others?
Philip?”
“Only for the most fantastic motive11.”
“Motives can be fantastic—or they can be absurdly slight. What’s hismotive?”
“He is bitterly jealous of Roger—always has been all his life. His father’spreference for Roger drove Philip in upon himself. Roger was about tocrash, then the old man heard of it. He promised to put Roger on his feetagain. Supposing Philip learnt that. If the old man died that night therewould be no assistance for Roger. Roger would be down and out. Oh! Iknow it’s absurd—”
“Oh no, it isn’t. It’s abnormal, but it happens. It’s human. What aboutMagda?”
“She’s rather childish. She — she gets things out of proportion. But Iwould never have thought twice about her being involved if it hadn’t beenfor the sudden way she wanted to pack Josephine off to Switzerland. Icouldn’t help feeling she was afraid of something that Josephine knew ormight say—”
“And then Josephine was conked on the head?”
“Well, that couldn’t be her mother!”
“Why not?”
“But Dad, a mother wouldn’t—”
“Charles, Charles, don’t you ever read the police news? Again and againa mother takes a dislike to one of her children. Only one—she may be de-voted to the others. There’s some association, some reason, but it’s oftenhard to get at. But when it exists, it’s an unreasoning aversion, and it’svery strong.”
“She called Josephine a changeling,” I admitted unwillingly12.
“Did the child mind?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Who else is there? Roger?”
“Roger didn’t kill his father. I’m quite sure of that.”
“Wash out Roger then. His wife—what’s her name—Clemency13?”
“Yes,” I said. “If she killed old Leonides it was for a very odd reason.”
I told him of my conversation with Clemency. I said I thought it possiblethat in her passion to get Roger away from England she might have delib-erately poisoned the old man.
“She persuaded Roger to go without telling his father. Then the old manfound out. He was going to back up Associated Catering14. All Clemency’shopes and plans were frustrated15. And she really does care desperately16 forRoger—beyond idolatry.”
“You’re repeating what Edith de Haviland said!”
“Yes. And Edith’s another whom I think—might have done it. But I don’tknow why. I can only believe that for what she considered a good and suf-ficient reason she might take the law into her own hands. She’s that kindof person.”
“And she also was very anxious that Brenda should be adequately de-fended?”
“Yes. That, I suppose, might be conscience. I don’t think for a momentthat if she did do it, she intended them to be accused of the crime.”
“Probably not. But would she knock out the child, Josephine?”
“No,” I said slowly. “I can’t believe that. Which reminds me that there’ssomething that Josephine said to me that keeps nagging17 at my mind, and Ican’t remember what it is. It’s slipped my memory. But it’s something thatdoesn’t fit in where it should. If only I could remember—”
“Never mind. It will come back. Anything or anyone else on yourmind?”
“Yes,” I said. “Very much so. How much do you know about infantileparalysis. Its aftereffects on character, I mean?”
“Eustace?”
“Yes. The more I think about it, the more it seems to me that Eustacemight fit the bill. His dislike and resentment18 against his grandfather. Hisqueerness and moodiness19. He’s not normal.
“He’s the only one of the family who I can see knocking out Josephinequite callously20 if she knew something about him—and she’s quite likely toknow. That child knows everything. She writes it down in a little book—”
I stopped.
“Good Lord,” I said. “What a fool I am.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I know now what was wrong. We assumed, Taverner and I, that thewrecking of Josephine’s room, the frantic search, was for those letters. Ithought that she’d got hold of them and that she’d hidden them up in thecistern room. But when she was talking to me the other day she made itquite clear that it was Laurence who had hidden them there. She saw himcoming out of the cistern21 room and went snooping around and found theletters. Then, of course, she read them. She would! But she left themwhere they were.”
“Well?”
“Don’t you see? It couldn’t have been the letters someone was looking for inJosephine’s room. It must have been something else.”
“And that something—”
“Was the little black book she writes down her ‘detection’ in. That’swhat someone was looking for! I think, too, that whoever it was didn’t findit. I think Josephine still has it. But if so—”
I half rose.
“If so,” said my father, “she still isn’t safe. Is that what you were going tosay?”
“Yes. She won’t be out of danger until she’s actually started for Switzer-land. They’re planning to send her there, you know.”
“Does she want to go?”
I considered.
“I don’t think she does.”
“Then she probably hasn’t gone,” said my father, drily. “But I thinkyou’re right about the danger. You’d better go down there.”
“Eustace?” I cried desperately. “Clemency?”
My father said gently:
“To my mind the facts point clearly in one direction … I wonder youdon’t see it yourself. I….”
Glover opened the door.
“Beg pardon, Mr. Charles, the telephone. Miss Leonides speaking fromSwinly Dean. It’s urgent.”
It seemed like a horrible repetition. Had Josephine again fallen a victim.
And had the murderer this time made no mistake …?
I hurried to the telephone.
“Sophia? It’s Charles here.”
Sophia’s voice came with a kind of hard desperation in it. “Charles, itisn’t all over. The murderer is still here.”
“What on earth do you mean? What is wrong? Is it—Josephine?”
“It’s not Josephine. It’s Nannie.”
“Nannie?”
“Yes, there was some cocoa—Josephine’s cocoa, she didn’t drink it. Sheleft it on the table. Nannie thought it was a pity to waste it. So she drankit.”
“Poor Nannie. Is she very bad?”
Sophia’s voice broke.
“Oh, Charles, she’s dead.”
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1
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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neurotic
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| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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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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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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potently
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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catering
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| n. 给养 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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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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nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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callously
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cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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