Chapter Three

As its custom was, the four o’clock edition of The Evening Mercury appeared on the streets of London at about three.

It was not a paper which Humbleby read, except when his business compelled him to or when, for masochistic or argumentative reasons, he felt the need to convince himself of the imminent collapse of all moral and cultural values. But on this fateful Monday it was on his desk by five past three, carried there by a sergeant with the air of those heralds in Greek tragedy who convey calamitous and often barely credible news to choruses of aghast and wondering citizens.

Humbleby had twice refused promotion, since he was not anxious for the increase in purely administrative work which it would certainly involve; but in spite of this (or perhaps even because of it) he was a person of some consequence at Scotland Yard, and his rage—the more impressive because it was so rare—spread through that elaborate hierarchy like an etheric wave. Indeed, the oily young man from the Mercury who brought him the original of Nicholas Crane’s letter received from him such summary and shattering treatment that on emerging from the building he had to go to the park and sit down in order to recover himself.

The story had been written up very much on the lines contemplated by Mr. Rouncey. Its insinuations disported themselves beneath banner headlines, and the letter itself was reproduced in facsimile. Humbleby gazed upon it and fluently cursed; in spite of what he had said over the telephone, he was keeping Fen’s theory of the case well in mind, and if that theory were correct, the Mercury had gratuitously performed a valuable service for the murderer in telling him where next to direct his energies.

As to the genuineness of the letter Humbleby was not in much doubt, but he passed it on to the Yard handwriting experts for their opinion. And having done that he set off, compassed about with a cloud of subordinates, to investigate its history.

The editor of The Evening Mercury received him with ill-concealed apprehension: Humbleby’s mood made him appear disconcertingly like an agent of the Eumenides. Yes, said the editor, the letter had been sent anonymously through the post. To him personally? Well, no; actually to one of his reporters…

Mr. Rouncey, far advanced in liquor and weeping copiously, was produced. With Mr. Snerd’s knowledge of the Brighton affair vivid in his mind, he corroborated with unshakable obstinacy his editor’s account of the letter’s provenance. In the end Humbleby was obliged to leave them, unenlightened; but he thought it in the highest degree unlikely that Madge Crane would have left the letter lying about for anyone to pick up, and that must mean that it had been stolen. He drove on, accordingly, to her flat, where he found Felicity, a regular reader of the Mercury, in a very shaken and pensive frame of mind.

Judge’s Rules went overboard in the interview that followed; Humbleby thought it improbable that Felicity had stolen the letter herself, since its publication was bound to bring her instantly under suspicion, but his examination was none the less completely ruthless. And Felicity, perceiving that her future as an employee of Miss Crane was now in any event dubious to a degree, did not fence with him for very long. She, too, saw that the letter must have been feloniously taken, and she had no doubt in her mind as to who had taken it. Thus it was that the whole story came out.

Long ago, she told Humbleby, she had suspected that “Peter Williams” was not what he represented himself to be. She had not specially resented his attempt at camouflage, but she had felt it necessary in her own interests to find out who he really was, and had therefore, one midday after they had said good-bye, followed him unobtrusively back to his office in Long Acre, and there acquainted herself with his true identity. He had spent the night with her at the flat, she said, and had left before she was awake. She was sure it was him as had done the thieving, the rotten dirty sneak, and left her to take the blame.

Where would Miss Crane have been likely to hide the letter? Well, there was a locked drawer in the desk in the sitting-room…

Humbleby, finding the desk suspiciously innocent of all finger-prints, was much inclined to concur in Felicity’s view of the matter. He haled her away with him to Long Acre in his car.

And there, sure enough, they came upon Mr. Snerd in his office, humming tunefully to himself and tidying up in readiness for his projected vacation. Confronted simultaneously by Felicity and the police, he was at first all injured innocence. But Humbleby had a shrewd notion that Mr. Snerd had handed the letter direct to Mr. Rouncey, and he stated, simply and firmly, that Mr. Rouncey had admitted this.

Thereupon Mr. Snerd lost his head, and fell to regaling them alternately with admissions of his own guilt and denunciations of Mr. Rouncey’s supposititious treachery. Mr. Snerd was determined that if he were going to sink, Mr. Rouncey should sink with him, and he waxed orotund over the details of the Brighton affair. It concerned, apparently, the deliberate suppression for a bribe’s sake of evidence important to the elucidation of a race-course affray two years previously—but this was not Humbleby’s business and he did not pay any very earnest attention to it. Leaving it to the cloud of subordinates to see to the arrests of both Mr. Snerd and Mr. Rouncey, he drove back alone to New Scotland Yard, conscious of having done a very satisfactory two hours’ work.

The next step, obviously, was to see Nicholas Crane. Humbleby telephoned his flat in Mayfair, but there was no reply. Application to his mother’s house had better results: he had driven there, it seemed, as soon as he had seen The Evening Mercury.

Humbleby collected certain chemicals and apparatus from the Yard’s laboratories—a consequence, this precaution, of his unwilling respect for Fen’s intelligence—and at six-thirty set out for Aylesbury.

He came to Lanthorn House, the residence of Mrs. Crane, as the last light was dropping over the western horizon. The house lay embowered in a cup-like confluence of low hills—so deeply embowered, indeed, that from the road it was not visible at all. Humbleby drove through dimly discerned heraldic gates, with adjacent stone-built lodges, and was at once among the trees of a large and unkempt estate. The carriage-way ran gradually and inexorably downwards; a gardener, trudging homewards in the company of an unattractive little girl, stopped and stared at Humbleby as he passed; massive rhododendron bushes loomed up on either side. And now, having at last achieved the floor of the hollow, Humbleby turned sharp left round a clutter of outhouses, and the featureless bulk of the house was in front of him. Between a phalanx of Corinthian pillars and a pedimented front door he brought the car to a halt and climbed out.

On the railway line which skirted the far side of the grounds a goods train whistled sardonically and clanked with deliberation out of earshot. Humbleby pressed the bell. Above his head the light of a caged electric bulb waxed and waned in rhythm with the pulsing of a heavy-oil engine which had become audible as soon as the car’s ignition was switched off. He waited, and presently, becoming irritable at the delay in admitting him, pressed the bell again; and he was about to supplement this by plying the ornate brass knocker when the door was opened to him by an old, improvident-looking butler.

“No Press,” said the butler promptly. “Be off with you, now, and quick about it.”

“I am the police,” said Humbleby coldly. “Please take me immediately to Mr. Nicholas Crane.”

The butler peered at him with suspicion.

“You’re not the one,” he said, “as came and took away Mr. Maurice’s medicine bottle. Don’t you try any tricks on me, now.”

“Stop arguing and let me in. It was one of my subordinates who was here before.”

“A nice character you are to ’ave subordinates,” said the butler resentfully. “I’ll bet they love you like a father… Well, I’ll ’ave to admit you, I s’pose. Come on in and don’t keep me standing ere ’alf the night.”

Thus graciously inducted, Humbleby climbed the three shallow treads to the threshold and stepped inside. A mass of gleaming white statuary confronted him; the room, large and high as a gymnasium, was disposed about it like a frame. Faraday, the statuary might be; or Samuel Rogers; or just conceivably Palmerstone. Seated, it stared apprehensively at the door, as though anticipating the arrival of duns or bailiffs. Its base pinned a large though inferior Turkey carpet to the parquet floor. Portraits in ponderous gilt frames conversed wordlessly, and with the effect of administering a decisive snub, across the top of its head. A number of well-polished but clearly functionless tables—of the sort described as ‘occasional’, but whose occasion somehow never arises—were ranged about the room’s periphery like sitters-out at a ball. And the only other furniture consisted of two immense Victorian hat and umbrella stands which, flanking the door, flourished a multiplicity of knob-crowned arms, Vishnu-like, at the ceiling.

“You just wait ’ere,” said the butler brusquely, “and I’ll go and find out what’s to be done about you.”

He departed, and Humbleby resigned himself patiently to waiting; his profession had long since inured him to kicking his heels in ante-rooms at the pleasure of householders a great deal less cultivated and estimable than himself—and one usually, he reflected, got one’s own back on them in the end. Comforted by this inexplicit prospect of retribution, Humbleby glanced idly up at the ceiling, where a number of ethereally graceful gods and goddesses were rioting about in one of those complicated and implausible intrigues which were apparently the main preoccupation of Olympus’ waking hours. Angelica Kaufmann, perhaps; it was quite good enough for that. And to judge from this hallway, the rest of Lanthorn House would probably exhibit a very similar mingling of the aesthetically desirable and the aesthetically null… It did not belong to Mrs. Crane, of course: she had rented it six months ago from Lord Boscoign, latest and probably last holder of an irremediably obscure barony, whose grandfather had refurnished it in its present style by dint of selling the near-by village, and who was now living precariously on its rent in a Harrogate boarding-house. A place as large as this, Humbleby reflected, must cost a good deal to run these days. So also must racehorses—and he had learned that these were Mrs. Crane’s chief interest in life. So a windfall of fifty thousand pounds would very likely come in useful, and…

But at this point Humbleby’s meditations were interrupted by the reappearance of the butler.

“They’ll see you,” said the butler, with the air of one whose good news is much against his inclination. “They’ll see you now.” He observed that Humbleby was removing his hat and coat. “Chuck those down anywhere. And get a move on, will you? I’ve got other things than you to attend to.”

“Until I choose to be ready, you most certainly haven’t,” said Humbleby.

“Bossy, aren’t you?” the aged creature snarled, “You just wait till the revolution, that’s all. That’ll finish you and your sort.”

“There is not going to be any revolution.”

“No, I don’t think so either,” said the butler unexpectedly. “And more’s the pity… Don’t you go trying to make a complaint about me,” he warned. “They won’t listen to you, because if they sacked me they’d never get another like me.”

“And thankful,” said Humbleby.

The butler considered this, and when he spoke again his tone was confiding.

“No, you’re wrong there,” he said. “They’re snobs, see? They’d rather have a stinking rotten butler like me,” he said with candour, “than none at all.”

“Yes, well, stop talking and take me to see them.”

“All right, cock.” The advance of old age had apparently induced in the butler that volatility of temperament most commonly associated with youth, and by now he was quite affable. “Keep your wool on. I’ll look after you, never fear. This way, this way. And watch out for the mats, or you’ll trip and do yourself a mischief.” He tottered cheerfully away, and Humbleby followed.

The reception-room into which he was conducted was about the size and shape of an average cinema. The gallery of a mezzanine floor encircled it on three sides. There were more pictures in gilt frames—one of a horse, one of a blurred, crepuscular landscape, one of an eighteenth-century actor, more than twice life-size, starting up in exaggerated terror from a satin-covered couch. These, presumably, represented the taste of the present Lord Boscoign’s grandfather. But there was also, withdrawn in a corner as if attempting to dissociate itself from the general decorative scheme, what looked very much like a Veronese. And there was more statuary—though here it was on an altogether discreeter and less forbidding scale than the nineteenth-century notability who so remorselessly scrutinised the inside of the front door. Faded, indifferent tapestry covered such of the wall-space as the paintings had been able to spare; an eight-foot settee and a variety of chairs stood in front of the fireplace; and in the fireplace itself—at whose sides two nude figures of surprisingly indeterminate sex struggled courageously to sustain, on the napes of their necks, an elaborate overmantel—there was a small log fire which hissed and flared sulkily.

Inside the door the butler halted, made a feeble attempt to look imposing, and after a little thought said:

“‘Ere ’e is. This is ’im.”

This task performed, he retired, inadvertently slamming the door behind him; and across broad acres of carpet Humbleby advanced on the group of people who stood or sat by the fire.

Nicholas Crane, sprawled on the long settee, looked up as he approached.

“Hallo, Inspector,” he said. “Come and join the conference. And have some sherry.”

“I won’t for the moment, thank you, sir.” Humbleby had not intended to speak stiffly, but after the Mercury’s revelations he could feel no enthusiasm for Nicholas, and the words sounded unfriendly despite himself. “Not for the moment,” he reiterated in more mollifying tones.

“Well, anyway, sit down.”

Humbleby sat down and surveyed the gathering. Apart from Nicholas, Medesco was the only person present whom he knew—and he was slightly surprised to find Medesco on such intimate terms with the family that he could be admitted to an assembly whose purpose was clearly to discuss the Mercury’s thunderbolt. Medesco sat with his great height and bulk overflowing a small chair, and with a cigar in the corner of his mouth; his small saurian eyes, framed between the formidable brow and the smooth, fat cheeks, gazed on Humbleby coldly and unblinkingly.

“Well, Inspector,” he said. “We’re in the thick of it, as you’ll have guessed. You shall sit by and pick up the crumbs.”

Nicholas nodded.

“I’m sorry we’re not able to help you by having Madge here as well,” he said. “If she was here, all the dirty linen could be washed at one go. But she hasn’t got in touch with us, and there’s no reply from the Doon Island number. Probably she hasn’t even seen the blasted paper.”

A little bald man, who was hovering at his side, gave a monitory cough.

“Now, now, Mr. Crane,” he interposed. “We must be careful what we say, mustn’t we? Very, very careful indeed.”

Nicholas sighed.

“This is my lawyer,” he said to Humbleby. “Mr. Cloud. He’s quite a nice chap in the normal way, but at the moment he’s just a quivering mass of legal circumspection.”

“In your own interests, Mr. Crane!” Mr. Cloud burst out. “In your own interests! If we are going to sue this newspaper—”

“We’re not,” said Nicholas briefly.

“But this is absurd! An action would lie. I can assure you that an action would lie. The greater the truth, the greater the libel. This is to say that—”

Mr. Cloud checked himself, belatedly conscious that in the present context his utterance of this forensic saw had been scarcely tactful. And Nicholas laughed.

“You don’t spare my feelings, do you, Cloud?” he said. “But never mind. The Mercury’s imputation is true, and for that reason—”

“Mr. Crane, I beg of you—”

“—for that reason, I shan’t attempt to contest it.” Nicholas smiled wryly. “This scandal is no more than I deserve… Do you believe in atonement, Inspector?”

“As a Christian of sorts,” said Humbleby cautiously, “I must.”

“Well, putting up with this will be my atonement for that wretched girl’s death. Not a very adequate one, I’m afraid, but thoroughly deserved.”

“You think the scandal will affect your career?” Humbleby asked.

“It will finish my career,” said Nicholas simply. “There are a great many very decent people in film business, and they’d no more work with me after this than they’d work with a leper.”

Humbleby looked at him curiously. His reaction was unexpected but inspiriting; it seemed that he was by no means lost to all decent feeling. And Nicholas, perhaps sensing the trend of Humbleby’s thought, shifted and reddened uncomfortably.

“Not that I want to make a great thing about it,” he added. “But you must understand quite clearly, Cloud”—his voice sharpened—“that I’m not going to bring an action for libel. That’s definite. If you try to argue about it, you’ll simply be wasting your efforts.”

His mother, who was standing in front of the fire and watching him thoughtfully, for the first time spoke.

“Madge will probably sue,” she said in a naturally husky voice. “And what will happen then?”

Eleanor Crane was a tall woman—as tall, almost, as Medesco, but slim and stately. She had a lean, greyish face, untidy hair in which streaks of white mingled with the dull gold, and pale green eyes with a certain glint of humour in them. Humbleby had expected her to be in mourning for her son Maurice, but in fact she wore a coat and skirt of purplish-brown tweed, with rough wool stockings and brogue shoes.

“No, I’m not in black, Inspector.” She had rightly interpreted his appraising glance. “Maurice was only my step-son, and I had no great liking for him, I’m afraid. He was a rake, and stupid.”

“You agreed,” said Humbleby, “to his bringing Miss Scott to stay here at Christmas.”

“Certainly. But as soon as she arrived I took her aside and warned her directly of what she could expect if she didn’t look out for herself. I told her of Maurice’s habits, and I told her that if she gave in to him she needn’t look forward to either marriage or advancement in films as a reward. She took,” said Eleanor Crane coolly, “very great offence at my suggestions. And I understand that she paid no attention to my warnings. But if she wanted an ally against Maurice’s intentions, she knew where to come, so I don’t consider I shirked my obligations at all… Where apparently I have shirked them is in my children’s upbringing. They’re all deplorable in one way or another—except, of course, David, who is merely dim.”

David Crane was the only person there who had not yet opened his mouth. He was a young, thick-set man, going prematurely bald, of a type that emanates social uncertainty like ectoplasm.

“Oh, l-look here, m-mother,” he protested.

“But let’s get back to the point,” said Eleanor Crane tranquilly; she was more immediately prepossessing, Humbleby thought, than any other member of the family he had encountered so far. “The point is, as I’ve said, that Madge will probably sue. And that means that if you, Nicholas dear, are going to persist in your very creditable policy of self-sacrifice, you’ll have to go into the witness-box against her. It will make a very depressing spectacle, and one which I think ought to be avoided if possible. Mr. Cloud, what line would my daughter’s lawyer be likely to take in a libel action against The Evening Mercury?”

Mr. Cloud, gratified at being appealed to, puffed himself up importantly.

“The publication of this letter,” he said, “is calculated to bring Miss Crane into hatred, ridicule and contempt. So much is obvious, there would be no difficulty in proving it, and for that reason the action might possibly succeed. I refer, of course, to a civil action only. Alternatively, or in addition, Miss Crane might apply to a police court for a summons for criminal libel. If she does that, then the defendants will not have to prove that the letter is true—since in criminal libel that matter is largely irrelevant—and it is conceivable that Mr. Crane here would not be involved at all. On the other hand—”

“Quite so, Mr. Cloud.” With some address, Eleanor Crane nipped this nascent homilectic in the bud. “But what I’m trying to ascertain is whether a civil action brought by my daughter would be likely to succeed. You say it ‘might possibly’. What could prevent it from succeeding?”

“Proof,” Mr. Cloud answered gloomily, “that the letter was true.”

“Well, you’re acquainted with the circumstances of the affair. Could such proof in fact be produced?”

“Yes, I rather think it could,” said Mr. Cloud even more gloomily. “So long as Mr. Crane persists in asserting the letter’s veracity, that is. Now, if he were to join Miss Crane in bringing the action—”

“I am not,” said Nicholas firmly, “going to do anything of the sort.”

“And in that case,” said his mother, “my daughter’s action would probably fail?”

Mr. Cloud nodded. “I’m afraid that that is so, yes.”

“Well, if you think that, no doubt her lawyer will think it also. And I believe she has just sufficient sense to take his advice. The remaining problem is, will she apply for a summons for criminal libel?”

“As an act of vengeance, perhaps,” said Mr. Cloud somewhat histrionically. “She could not, of course, by that method obtain monetary restitution, and I doubt if it would help to salvage her reputation.”

“Then the position is clear at last.” Eleanor Crane took her sherry from a niche in the overmantel and sipped it. “Nicholas is intent on immolation and will not take any sort of action. And Madge cannot succeed in a civil suit without his co-operation, and a summons for criminal libel would do her no earthly good. I think that since that’s so she’ll cut her losses and keep quiet—don’t you, Aubrey?”

Medesco grunted. “The girl’s a conceited, over-sexed little ass,” he opined dispassionately, “and the power she wields over everyone in film business has gone to her head. In my view she’s perfectly capable of cutting off her nose to spite her face. But I suggest that the thing to do is to stop theorising about it and wait until we can get in touch with her.”

“And in the meantime?” Nicholas asked.

“In the meantime,” said Humbleby, “I think you should take certain precautions, Mr. Crane.”

“Precautions…? Oh, ah. Yes, I see what you mean. Your Professor Fen made the same suggestion on Saturday. Your idea is that in view of what the Mercury has published I’m likely to be the poisoner’s next victim—or possibly Madge.”

“There is that possibility,” said Humbleby seriously, “and it would be silly to neglect it.” He frowned. “In fact, your failure to get through to Miss Crane at Doon Island is worrying me slightly. If you’ll be so good as to take me to a telephone I think I’ll ring up the Doon Island police and ask them to pay her a visit simply as a precaution.”

It was Nicholas who led him to the telephone. Humbleby returned, having done what was necessary, in five minutes, and found them silent and embarrassed—a consequence, perhaps, of something that had been discussed while he was away.

“So you still have no notion, Inspector,” said Eleanor Crane, “as to who killed Maurice?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Crane. We’re doing everything that can be done.”

“Vengeance.” Almost imperceptibly she shivered. “Is that your theory about the motive?”

“It’s an idea I’m keeping in mind,” said Humbleby reservedly as he sat down again.

Eleanor Crane laughed, suddenly and harshly, but not without amusement.

“Another,” she said, “being that I get control of Maurice’s money. You knew that, didn’t you? Yes, of course you did. I told that pleasant young man you sent here on Saturday afternoon.”

Humbleby remained impassive and said nothing. But:

“Oh, l-look here, m-mother, that’s absurd,” said David Crane. “It’s s-silly to put ideas into p-people’s heads. I know you n-never p-pay any attention to what I say, b-but…”

“David dear, your loyalty does you credit but not, I’m afraid, your intelligence… And I may as well admit, Inspector, that I need that money. I’ve had heavy losses recently on the tracks, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever be able to meet my obligations.”

“Indeed, ma’am.” The investigations of his subordinates had made Humbleby acquainted with this fact twenty-four hours ago, and the admission did not interest him. What did interest him was the presence here of Aubrey Medesco, and he went on to say casually: “I was a little surprised to find this gentleman with you.”

“There is absolutely no limit,” said Medesco, “to the things that surprise the police. Their capacity for amazement makes Candide look like the most degenerate of urban sophisticates.”

“Mr. Medesco,” said Eleanor pleasantly, “is an old friend of the family, Inspector.”

“W-well, n-not an old friend, m-mother.” David seemed anxious to be helpful. “B-because when I c-came back from the U.S.A. t-two years ago we didn’t know him, and I remember w-when you said you w-were going to m-marry him I s-said to m-myself…”

“David!” said Eleanor in good-humoured exasperation. “I thought I told you that my engagement to Mr. Medesco was to remain a secret for the present.”

“Oh; s-sorry, m-mother. I only thought…”

“No, dear. You only failed to think.” There was a hint of real annoyance underlying Eleanor Crane’s tolerant smile. “Well, that’s one cat out of the bag, Inspector.”

“My congratulations, sir,” said Humbleby gravely. “And to you, ma’am, every happiness.” He was not surprised that they had wanted to keep the engagement a secret, for a mariage de convenance is always apt to arouse the world’s scorn, and particularly if it is between elderly people; but he was also not surprised that in this instance it had been arranged, since he had sensed from the first—little though they had spoken to one another—a very definite sympathy between Medesco and Mrs. Crane. Whether this posture of affairs would prove to have any importance in the case he did not know; there was the point, of course, that—

And Mrs. Crane caught up his train of thought at precisely the stage where she interrupted it.

“So there is the point,” she said, “that Aubrey, too, had a motive for killing Maurice—since presumably he would prefer to marry a wife who was not impecunious.”

Medesco looked up at her, and it was the first time Humbleby had seen him smile.

“My dear girl,” he said, “I’d marry you if you were a barmaid.”

Eleanor Crane had crossed to the table on which the sherry decanter stood, and was refilling her glass. “Apposite,” she commented. “Perfect timing. Are you sure you won’t have a drink, Inspector? If you don’t like sherry our insufferable butler could be made to produce something else. Or is it a regulation that you mustn’t drink when you’re on duty?”

Having assured her that no such regulation existed, Humbleby accepted sherry and pledged her very courteously in it.

“And now,” she said, “we’ve been holding you up for too long with chatter about our personal affairs. Tell us why you came.”

“To investigate in detail, I’m afraid, this whole affair of Miss Scott’s contract.” Humbleby turned to Nicholas. “If you’d prefer to talk about it in private, sir…”

“No, no,” said Nicholas wearily. “We may as well drag the whole squalid business out into the open, and be done with it.”

At this, Mr. Cloud became vastly agitated.

“I have to advise you, Mr. Crane,” he said perturbedly, “that you are not under any obligation to answer the Inspector’s questions. And indeed, in your own interests—”

“Hush, Cloud.” Nicholas wagged a finger at him. “I appreciate your efforts, but they’re misplaced. Your job is to protect me from the Press… And by the way, where is the Press? They’re being remarkably discreet. I expected hordes of reporters, and not a single one has turned up so far—though they have rung me up to ask for a statement.”

“They are obliged to go carefully,” said Mr. Cloud. “The situation is delicate, and they are obliged to go very, very carefully indeed. We might take a hint from them, eh, Mr. Crane?”

Nicholas groaned. “Sit down, Cloud,” he said. “Stop fidgeting about. Drink your sherry.”

“Very well, sir.” Mr. Cloud was clearly offended. “But if you will not be ruled by me I can take no responsibility, none whatever.” He sat down heavily and mopped his brow. “Please understand that this statement is not made with my approval.”

“Mea maxima culpa,” said Nicholas. “You shall have a signed exoneration, Cloud, signed and witnessed… And now, Inspector, let’s get on with it.”

An expectant silence fell upon the group. Eleanor Crane had her shoulder against the mantelpiece, and was staring absently at the Veronese in the corner. Medesco remained immobile, his small eyes almost closed. Mr. Cloud, deflated, sipped his sherry as though it were unspeakably distasteful to him. And only David Crane seemed unaffected by the atmosphere: he had picked up an illustrated magazine and was turning its pages attentively, as if, cat-like, he had for the time being completely forgotten what was going forward.

“I’m sorry to have to probe this matter, sir,” said Humbleby. “But for one thing, it’s obviously bound up with Miss Scott’s suicide, and for another, there’s Mr. Maurice Crane’s death to consider. You see—”

“Yes, yes, Inspector,” Nicholas interrupted. “There’s no need to apologise. I don’t suspect you of having come down here out of mere idle curiosity.” He paused to light a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and went on:

“This is what happened.

“Madge was at the bottom of it all—I don’t say that to excuse myself, but the fact remains that she was the prime mover. She hated poor Gloria; and the reason for that, of course, was Stuart North.

“Stuart and Gloria were both in Visa for Heaven, which I directed. Gloria only had a tiny part, but her scene in the film involved Stuart as well, and that was how they met. Stuart fell for her, in a mild way. I don’t know whether she was genuinely interested in him, but anyway, it flattered her to be touted about by a star.”

“Yes, and that raises a point I don’t quite understand,” said Eleanor Crane. “What on earth made her go after Maurice as well? Did she seriously imagine she could run both of them simultaneously?”

“Well, I don’t know, but I’ve an idea she left Stuart for Maurice as soon as she found out how much Stuart detested films. Specifically a film career was what she was after, and from that point of view Maurice was a more promising ally than Stuart, who wanted to get away from films as soon as he possibly could. But where all that’s concerned your guess is as good as mine.

“We finished Visa for Heaven at the end of November, and it was about then that Stuart met Madge for the first time. I don’t pretend to be able to interpret my precious sister’s motives, but anyway, she made a dead set at Stuart. And unluckily for her, Gloria had got in first.

“That, no doubt, made her keener than ever. She’s got a nice technique of persuasion, has Madge. You see, apart from Leiper himself, she’s easily the most important person at the studios, and no one who doesn’t want to risk losing his job dares offend her. Even Leiper has to handle her carefully, because she’s a fabulous money-maker, and if he lost her to Rank or Korda his profits’d drop like an express lift.

“But the trouble about Stuart, from her point of view, was that she couldn’t put this technique into action against him, for the simple reason that he’d much rather be on the stage than in films. So if Madge wanted him for an inamorato, she’d have to rely on her unaided charms. And with Gloria about, they didn’t seem to work very well.”

Outside the two high windows that flanked the fireplace it was almost completely dark, and the rising wind blew a spatter of raindrops against the panes. The huge room—surely, in origin, a ballroom—was dimly lighted; only round the fire was there a circle of greater radiance, and this waxed and waned perceptibly with the pulse of the engine that supplied it. The fire was burning low, and Nicholas got up to throw another log on to it before going on.

“Well, that was the situation,” he said. “Until The Unfortunate Lady, my sweet sister couldn’t do anything nasty to Gloria, for the simple reason that Gloria didn’t have a job. Then the question of casting Martha Blount came up, and I recommended Gloria for the part. Jocelyn—Jocelyn Stafford, that is—is a bit other-worldly where studio scandal is concerned; he had no idea there was any antagonism between Madge and Gloria, and I didn’t go out of my way to tell him. So he interviewed the girl and signed her up. I thought that when Madge heard about it she’d just resign herself to making the best of a bad job. I was wrong. I honestly hadn’t a notion how much she loathed Gloria. If I had had, I certainly wouldn’t have suggested Gloria for that part. She deserved to get it, mind you—but my encouragement of young actresses normally stops short if it seems likely to create a first-class, flaming row.

“And that’s just what it did create. When Madge heard what had happened, she cornered me and issued an ultimatum. If Gloria’s contract wasn’t revoked, she said, she’d go to Leiper and tell him that if I didn’t leave his organisation she would. And we, were both well aware which of us he’d choose to keep. I wasn’t signed up for anything after The Unfortunate Lady, and if I’d ignored Madge’s orders I should have been out on my neck.”

“My dear boy,” said his mother, “surely with your reputation, rank—”

But Nicholas shook his head.

“Unlikely,” he interrupted. “The industry’s at a low ebb at the moment, and the other companies have got many more directors on tap than they can use. I’d quite definitely have been out of a job—and that possibility didn’t please me a bit.”

He looked at them wryly.

“Cowardice, you think? Yes, I admit it was. But I couldn’t possibly have foreseen that Gloria would kill herself, could I? And I swear to you”—he leaned forward and spoke very earnestly—“I swear to you that I meant to make it up to Gloria afterwards in some way Madge couldn’t interfere with.

“The plan was Madge’s. Even for her sake Leiper probably wouldn’t have gone back on that contract once it was signed—and in any case, she wasn’t at all anxious to have it known that she was doing Gloria down. The basic idea, of course, was to leave the dirty work to me. And the circumstances were all in favour. Marcia Bloom was playing the lead in Lover’s Luck. Her father had died, and she wanted to go to Ireland for the funeral, and that meant a stand-in for last Tuesday evening’s performance, and just as it happened, her understudy had been taken off to hospital with appendicitis or something. And Jedd—Lover’s Luck is his show—is a man I know fairly well. It all fitted very nicely.

“You know what the idea was. People who have contracts with a film company have to have permission from the company to appear on the stage or the radio. It’s nearly always given, so really the thing’s little more than a formality. Still, if you don’t observe that formality you’ve broken your contract, and you’re capable of being sued.

“In their own interests theatrical managers generally see to it that that permission has been given.” Here Nicholas grew perceptibly uneasy. “But as Jedd knew me, he was prepared to take my word for it and didn’t ask for any other evidence.”

“In your letter,” Humbleby interposed mildly, “there is a sentence which suggests that—”

“Mr. Crane!” Cloud, who had been following the narrative with an air of hypnotised gloom, now sat upright so abruptly that he upset his sherry on to his knee. “It would be undesirable for us to enter into detail at this point. Very, very undesirable. We don’t want to give the Inspector the idea that we’re an accessory after a fact, do we now? We don’t want—”

“Calm yourself, Cloud,” said Nicholas. “And wipe your trousers. There’s no question of my being an accessory after a fact. Where Jedd’s concerned, there isn’t a fact. To my knowledge, he’s never done anything in the least criminal.”

“Then,” Humbleby prompted, “the reason why you assured Miss Crane that he would not give the—um—conspiracy away was—”

“Was to do with his private life. A matter of marital infidelity.”

Cloud gave vent to a loud moan. “Mr. Crane, Mr. Crane! We must not lay ourselves open to any imputation of blackmail. We must not—”

“Once and for all, Cloud,” said Nicholas in exasperation, “will you be quiet… I merely told Jedd that I should like Gloria to have the opportunity of standing in for Marcia Bloom, and after he’d talked to her he agreed to give her the chance.”

Eleanor Crane raised her eyebrows.

“Theatrical managers,” she observed dryly, “are obviously more trusting nowadays than they used to be.”

Her son brushed this sarcasm peremptorily aside. “None the less, that is what happened. And you’ll understand that Gloria herself wasn’t at all averse to the idea when I put it up to her… I was contemptible enough,” said Nicholas steadily, “to tell her she’d be doing me a favour by standing in for Marcia; and God help me, she was very anxious to do me any favour she could…

“Well, it was all arranged. I told Gloria—not in front of witnesses—that I’d see to getting the company’s permission for her to appear, that she could leave all that side of it to me. Of course she trusted me.” Nicholas gave a short, toneless laugh. “Why shouldn’t she? I liked her and I’d always done what I could for her.”

Eleanor Crane made a movement of impatience.

“These self-tormentings may be all very well, Nicholas,” she said, “but a public exhibition of them strikes me as being in poorish taste. You’ve assured us several times how badly you feel about it all, and we quite believe you. So for the moment just confine yourself to the facts.”

Nicholas looked at her queerly.

“Very well, mother,” he answered in a dull, uninflected voice. “I’ll confine myself to the facts…

“The next fact is that Gloria slaved for four days to get the part up. I’m told she was very good in it, though I didn’t see her myself.

“And then, of course, I had to tell her what she’d let herself in for.

“That was really why I asked her to my party. When everyone else had gone, I kept her behind to talk to her.

“There’s no need to tell you in detail what I said. I should have liked to have put the blame on Madge, but I didn’t dare. And anyway, by that time I was quite as culpable as she was.

“But the really horrible thing is that what I said to Gloria was almost pure bluff. It wasn’t that she’d been tricked into an impossible position; it was that I deceived her into imagining she had. In other words, I was trading on her relative ignorance of film business. My line, you see, was that she’d broken her contract by appearing in Lover’s Luck; and that if she didn’t want to be sued for breach she’d better let me arrange for the contract to be cancelled—a thing I could quite easily do. But the point is that if she’d just dug her heels in and said ‘Let them sue’, I was foxed, because I knew damn well how unlikely it was that they would.”

Grimacing, Medesco threw the butt of his cigar into the fire.

“And she realised, no doubt,” he observed, “that if she fought your obvious intention of gerrymandering her out of her contract, you’d see to it that she never got another. So whether she believed you or whether she thought you were bluffing, it all came to the same thing from her point of view: she was finished in films.”

“Oh, God, I hadn’t thought of that.” Nicholas closed his eyes and with his thumb and forefinger massaged their lids, like a man in the last stages of physical exhaustion. “Well, anyway, you know how it worked out,” he went on after a moment’s pause. “I—I knew she’d be upset, naturally. But I never dreamed she’d take it as badly as she did. Her reaction was so violent and horrible that I could scarcely believe she wasn’t just acting. But her face went grey, it looked pinched and frightful, and you can’t act that sort of thing. When I’d finished she didn’t say anything—anything at all. She just turned and ran out of the flat.

“And then…

“Well, then she went away and killed herself.”

For a long half-minute there was complete silence.

Nicholas’ final words had sounded thin and bloodless in that huge room, and the shadows which on three sides beleaguered the group by the fire seemed now to be darker and more pervasive. Draughts fingered the worn tapestries on the walls, and the effect of the ebb and flow of the light had become mesmeric. You could hear that now it was raining in real earnest; though you could not see it, because the window-panes were as dull and black as if they had been coated with creosote. The balustrade of the mezzanine gallery was ghostly in the upper darkness.

And the drowned girl, it seemed to Humbleby, stood among them as vividly as an actual phantom. Except perhaps for David, everyone there had her in his mind’s eye. A tag from Voltaire drifted irrelevantly into Humbleby’s mind: “Make love like fools when you are young, and, work like devils when you are old: it is the only way to live”. And that, it occurred to him, enabled one to diagnose accurately enough what had been the defect in Gloria Scott: while still in her teens she had been an uncompromising arriviste, and about such a figure there is something inevitably pathetic and incongruous. First and foremost the young should always concern themselves simply with living, with experiencing. Let them be ambitious, yes; but what is precious—Humbleby had a sentimental liking for this poem of Spender’s which Fen might not have approved—what is precious is never to forget the delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth. And arrivisme is always and everywhere a denial of that…

Humbleby pulled himself together. Nebulous, amateurish excursions into mysticism might be all very well, but this was not the moment for them.

“Thank you, Mr. Crane,” he said; and as if the words had been a signal, the group round the fire shifted and broke. David threw aside his magazine. Medesco heaved himself out of his chair and moved his great bulk, not without a certain feline grace, to a position in front of the hearth, where he stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Eleanor, glancing at her watch, excused herself briefly and left the room on some domestic errand. Nicholas got to his feet, replenished his glass with sherry, drank it at a gulp, and filled again. Only Cloud, subdued by what he had heard, and ruminating, perhaps, some opposition between his professional advantage and his personal sense of moral fitness—only Cloud remained motionless.

“Well, that’s that,” Nicholas said with an attempt at levity. “The confessional is now closed for the night, and the repentant sinner will direct three Government documentaries by way of expiation… Is that funny? No, I suppose in the circumstances it isn’t.”

Humbleby was regarding him speculatively.

“I think,” he said, “that I must have missed Professor Fen’s warning to you.”

“Warning?” Nicholas echoed vaguely.

“You said earlier on that on Saturday he advised you to take certain precautions.”

“Oh, that… Yes, he did. He said he thought it’d be a good thing if Madge and I didn’t eat or drink anything except what other people were eating and drinking.”

“And have you been taking his advice?”

“I have, yes. He’s got something of a reputation as a criminologist, I understand, so I thought that probably he had reason for the warning. And besides that, he said another thing which made me decide that he must be rather a perceptive sort of person.”

“What was that?”

“A plain hint that he’d guessed there was hanky-panky about Gloria’s contract. It can’t possibly have been anything except a guess, but it was an uncomfortably accurate one.”

“And did you pass on his warning to your sister?”

“I did. But I doubt if she’s been paying any attention to it. She’s probably reached that stage of megalomania at which you begin to fancy you’re immortal. And in any case,” Nicholas added, dropping to a more prosaic level, “she’s one of those people who quite automatically do the opposite of what they’re advised to do. If I wanted her to go to Iceland for a holiday, I should tell her that the sunshine of Italy was what she needed, and the next thing I knew she’d be at Reykjavik or the North Pole, chucking soap into geysers for the benefit of the newsreel cameras.”

“I see… What precautions have you yourself taken?”

“Well, I’ve been having all my meals and drinks out, at restaurants and bars, that’s really what it amounts to. And even before you found out that Maurice’s tonic had been poisoned, I gave up taking my own medicine… Look here, Inspector, was Maurice’s death an act of revenge?”

“I can’t say more than I said before, sir, and that is that there’s a fifty-fifty chance it was.”

Nicholas considered this. “Then let’s suppose that thanks to the Mercury the poisoner wants to get at me as well. He can’t put his stuff in the drinks at my flat without breaking open the sideboard, because the woman who cleans for me is slightly dipso, and I have to keep them locked up. He can put it in the odds and ends of food and drink I keep there, and he can put it in my medicine—provided, of course, that he can get into the flat… As a matter of fact, I’ve got the medicine with me… No, no, I’m not intending to take it, my dear chap. But I’ve got a chemist friend in Aylesbury and it occurred to me to ask him to test it for me. One does like to know where one stands. I forgot to take it to him on the way down here, but I can drop it in tomorrow morning.”

“If you care to let me have it, sir, I can test it for colchicine straight away.”

“Test it for what?”

“Colchicine. That’s what killed your brother.”

“Damned if I’ve ever heard of it.”

“It’s rare, certainly. And even if your medicine has been poisoned, that particular toxin may not have been used—though poisoners usually tend to stick to their formula.”

“It’s like a dream, isn’t it?” said Nicholas a little dazedly. “Dispassionate, civilised chat about whether someone is trying to kill one or not… Well, I’ll get you the medicine. When you say you can test it straight away do you mean here and now?”

“If you can give me a room to work in.”

“Yes, of course we can. I’ll consult Mamma about it. Oh, here she is now. Mother, the Inspector wants a room to do chemical experiments in.”

“Good heavens.” Eleanor Crane’s astonishment was pleasantly artificial. “Not trying to isolate bloodstains, surely?”

Nicholas explained the position to her and she nodded. “Yes,” she said, “that can certainly be managed. There’s a sort of box-room that might do, with a table and a chair and a washbasin and a gas fire that works. You must have a look at it, Inspector, and see if it suits you.”

“I’ll fetch the stuff and bring it back here,” said Nicholas, and departed.

“But first, how about dinner?” said Eleanor. “We usually dine at eight, and it’s after nine, and our cook pretends to take pride in the food she serves up, revolting though it generally is, and she’s muttering about giving notice. Inspector, you’ll dine with us, I hope?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Humbleby urbanely. “It’s kind of you to ask me, but I’d rather go ahead with this job. Perhaps, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, a sandwich…”

“By all means. Mr. Cloud, you’ll stay, of course?”

The lawyer stood up slowly. His face had a strained, vacant look.

“Thank you, Mrs. Crane, but I should prefer not to,” he said. “In the usual way I don’t allow my personal feelings to intrude upon my business, but in this instance—in this case…”

The little man’s struggle to express himself at once honestly and tactfully was not without dignity. After a fractional hesitation he went on:

“I’m sorry to say that after what I’ve heard I shall never again be able to devote myself wholeheartedly to Mr. Crane’s affairs. And I think, therefore, that it would be best for him to have some other legal adviser. I—if you will pardon me, I’ll leave now, and write to him about it in the morning.”

“I can see your point of view, Mr. Cloud,” said Eleanor gravely, “and I quite sympathise with it.”

“You’re very kind, Mrs. Crane. Very kind… No, please don’t ring. I can let myself out. Good evening, Mrs. Crane. Good evening to you all…”

He bowed himself through the door. And by the time Nicholas returned, David, too, had left—in order, as he was at pains to inform them, to wash his hands in readiness for the impending meal. The medicine proved to be a milky fluid in the usual graded bottle; about a third of it had been used.

“What is it prescribed for?” Humbleby asked.

Nicholas grinned. “What they call nervous dyspepsia—though when I look at poor old Evan George, with all his bellyaches, I feel quite ashamed of making a fuss about it… I imagine it’s mostly bicarbonate. That’s what it tastes like, anyway.

“Ah. Well, I’ll get my bag out of my car, and then, if you’d be so kind as to show me to this room…”

Ten minutes later he was alone there. It was small, bare and inhospitable, high up among the attics, but quite suitable for his purpose. Beyond its uncurtained windows, in a darkness unrelieved by moon or stars, the tops of tall trees sighed and whispered in the steady downpour. The aged but mercurial butler brought him substantial quantities of sandwiches and beer.

“Some scandal, eh?” he said affably. “Driving poor honest working girls to suicide. But that’s the boss class all over.”

“Miss Scott worked only spasmodically,” said Humbleby, “and there is no evidence that she was honest.”

The butler ignored this. “But Mr. Maurice, ’e got what was coming to ‘im,” he observed. “Seduced er, ’e did. Droy de saygnur, that’s what they called it in the bad old days of laysez-feer—I dare say you don’t know French, so I’ll translate that for you. It means working girls being forced by law to go to bed with the upper classes, see?”

“You know what you’re like?” said Humbleby. “You’re like some ghastly relic left over from the earliest origins of the Fabian Movement.”

The butler ignored this, too.

“So I can tell what you’re saying to yourself, he pursued. “You’re saying to yourself: ‘Now, ’ow does it come about that a straightforward chap like old Syd Primrose works for a lot of degenerate capitalists like the Cranes?’ You’re saying to yourself—”

“I’m saying to myself that I shouldn’t be surprised to find you licking the boots of people who torture little children for the fun of it.”

The butler took this observation in very bad part. His face became suffused with senile fury.

‘You shut yer trap,” he snarled, transported. “And keep it shut. Don’t think you can malinger me,” he shouted, “and get away with it. Just you wait till we ’ave the revolution. Just you—”

“You said earlier,” Humbleby pointed out, “that we weren’t going to have a revolution.”

“Never you mind what I said, Mr. Bossy. Castin’ a man’s words in ’is teeth. Spittin’ in a poor old chap’s eye. Why—”

“I’ll boot a poor old chap hard in the backside,” said Humbleby, “if he doesn’t get out of here and leave me alone. For God’s sake, go away and read The New Statesman or something. I’m busy.”

The ancient Primrose summoned up his energies for an annihilating blast of invective. None, however, came. It was not that he had thought better of it; rather it was as if he had suddenly lost all recollection of what was being talked about. His face smoothed itself out, and he nodded agreeably.

“So that’s settled, then,” he remarked inconsequently. “Got all you want, ’ave you? You’ve only got to ring if you need anything.” He made for the door and paused there. “About torturing children,” he said earnestly. “I don’t ’old with it.” He adopted a lecture-room posture, one finger upraised. “Now—”

“Get,” said Humbleby, “out.”

Primrose went.

Thereupon Humbleby settled down to work. He enjoyed playing with chemicals, and applied himself single-mindedly to the task in hand. From his case he took test-tubes, nitric acid, sulphuric acid and caustic potash, and for ten minutes was pleasantly occupied with them. Then he sat back and pensively considered the results.

To both the tests he had applied the reaction had been positive. One needed a control experiment, of course, using medicine that was known to be unadulterated; but it was very unlikely that a prescription for dyspepsia would contain any substance capable of provoking the same chemical reactions as colchicine—unlikely, indeed, that any such substance existed. Zeisel’s reaction (which was rather too complicated for Humbleby to perform at the moment) would clinch the matter, but even without that there was no doubt in his mind that Nicholas Crane’s medicine contained colchicine.

It looked, then, as if Fen’s original reading of the case—his interpretation of it as an act of vengeance—might well be correct. But there were two other possibilities—the first, that a murderer unconnected with Gloria Scott had reason for killing Nicholas as well as Maurice; and the second, that Nicholas had killed Maurice from a motive yet to be discovered, and was now attempting to disarm suspicion by simulating a scheme for murdering himself. Neither of these alternatives, however, struck Humbleby as being particularly convincing, since neither accounted for the obliteration of Gloria Scott’s true identity by the ransacking of her rooms in Stamford Street. The girl’s motive for committing suicide was now plain; on no conceivable hypothesis could the invasion of her rooms have helped to keep that motive secret; therefore the Stamford Street affair—unless it were wholly irrelevant and accidental, which Humbleby simply refused to believe—must be connected with the murders. And the only connection which Humbleby could imagine was precisely that which Fen had adumbrated in the first instance—the theory of an avenging murderer, associated with Gloria Scott at the time when she was using her proper name, and anxious (naturally enough) to occlude that connection before initiating his ghastly vendetta.

Thus Humbleby meditated, while he munched sandwiches and gulped beer. And the urgent problem, he saw, was how far-reaching this vendetta was likely to be. Since it included Nicholas, thanks to the Mercury’s informative ways, it would presumably be bound to include Madge as well. And further than that? Well, it might prove to be a vendetta in the strict sense of the word—an indiscriminate attack on the entire family, regardless of whether they had harmed Gloria Scott or no. In that case, Humbleby reflected, it was going to be very difficult to deal with indeed. Better, on the whole, assume that the poisoners malevolence was directed against specific people until events proved otherwise… And upon this callous decision—since the “events” he contemplated would almost certainly be homicidal—Humbleby finished his viands, pushed the tray aside, and began repacking his chemicals and apparatus. The next step, anyway, was clear: he must find out what opportunity there had been for poisoning Nicholas’ medicine.

In the event, however, this enterprise was slightly delayed. Humbleby met Nicholas coming up the stairs to report a telephone call from the police at Doon Island.

“Ah, yes, I asked them to ring me back as soon as they’d made sure Miss Crane was all right,” said Humbleby.

Nicholas turned and they went down to the hall together.

“You’ve completed your tests?” Nicholas enquired.

“Yes.”

“And the result? Or mayn’t I ask?”

“Of course you may. After all, it does concern you very intimately… The bottle of medicine you gave me was in fact poisoned.”

“With this colchicine muck?”

“Yes.”

Nicholas whistled.

“Well, at least I know where I am now,” he said wryly. “What happens next?”

“I must talk to you about opportunity for poisoning the medicine. Are you nearly at the end of dinner?”

“Yes. We’ve been gobbling away in an unsociable silence. I can be with you as soon as you’ve finished talking on the phone. We’ll have some coffee in the boudoir—that’s that door there.”

Inspector Berkeley, on Doon Island, seemed disposed to be chatty.

“Yes, she’s as safe as houses,” he said in answer to Humbleby’s first query. “I interviewed her personally—luscious bit of flesh, isn’t she?”

Humbleby frowned at this familiarity; he did not, he said, want to waste time evaluating the merely aphrodisiac properties of the girl. What had happened at the interview?

“Well, I told her there was a possibility she was in danger,” pursued Berkeley, chastened, “and to be short about it, she just laughed at me.”

“Good heavens above, you can’t have been very impressive with her, can you? Had she seen the Mercury?”

“Oh, yes. There was a copy there in the room. She was pretty brazen about it all, but I could see she was on edge.”

“With your discernment, you should have been a psychiatrist.”

“Yes, but it’s a useful gift when you’re in the Force, too,” said Berkeley, unaware of the irony. “She was on edge all right. And of course, when I say she laughed at me, I don’t mean she actually laughed.”

“No. You just put that bit in to confuse me.”

“She wasn’t in a jolly mood, that’s to say. And small wonder, if you ask me.”

“Small wonder indeed,” said Humbleby heavily, “with a libidinous flatfoot like you goggling at her.”

“Hey,” said Berkeley indignantly. “That’s a slander…” A new thought struck him. “I tell you what, though. Her legs are a disappointment.”

“With your imaginings, you’d probably find any real pair of legs a disappointment… This is serious, man. Did you manage to impress on her that she’s got to look after herself? Since I phoned you first, new evidence has come up which makes it even more urgent. She really is in very grave danger of being killed.”

“Cripes,” said Berkeley soberly. “Well, all I can say is that I did my best.”

“You warned her about food and drink and medicines and that sort of thing?”

“Yes, I did that. I don’t think that she’s going to pay any attention, though.”

“And even if she does, we can’t just leave it at that. Our X may try a more direct approach. You must have a man stationed outside the house night and day.”

“Right,” said Berkeley briskly. “I’ll deal with that at once. Anything else?”

“Let’s see… Is the house burglar-proof?”

“Far from it. It’s only a little cottage.”

“Well, try and see to it that she locks the doors and shuts the windows when she goes to bed. You can’t force her to, of course, but with a little tact you may be able to manage it… Oh, look here, I’d better telephone her myself.”

“You can try, but I doubt if you’ll get through. The thing rang three times while I was with her, and she didn’t answer it once. Seems to be a policy.”

“Blast the girl. Well, I can’t spare the time to come down and argue with her, so you’ll have to take complete responsibility. I’ll get the A.C. to contact your Chief Constable so that you can have all the men and facilities you need.”

“Oh, for God’s sake don’t do that,” wailed Berkeley. “I don’t want Sir Cyril hanging round the station all day. I can manage it easily on my own. It’s a slack time here.”

“All right, then… Oh, now I come to think of it, you’d better have two men at the cottage: one to follow her—in a car, if necessary—whenever she goes out.”

“She’s not going to like that, you know. What do I do if she turns nasty?”

“Stick to your guns—but politely, of course. If she makes a fuss at a higher level, I’ll shoulder the blame… Is she alone?”

“No. Got her secretary with her. Grim, hatchet-faced female. As far as I can gather, the secretary’s doing all the cooking and whatnot.”

“Mm. Get her on your side if you can. And for the Lord’s sake, Berkeley, don’t trip up on the job. There’s a murderer loose, and if he gets a chance at Madge Crane there’ll be a national uproar.”

And that, thought Humbleby as he replaced the receiver, is about as much as, I can do along those lines. Now for Nicholas.

Nicholas, it was obvious, had devoted the interregnum of Humbleby’s telephoning to putting his evidence in order. After a brief, incurious enquiry as to his sister’s safety he embarked on it.

“The first thing,” he said, “is that my flat is practically impossible to break into. And up to the time I left it this afternoon it hadn’t been broken into, I can assure you of that.”

“Good. And then?”

“Well, as you know, Thursday was the night of the wretched party, so I suppose I’d better start from there. After Gloria had gone, I locked up the flat and went to bed. And early on Friday I came on here; when I get sick of my own company I sometimes do that, and stay a night or two, and I wasn’t feeling at all fond of my own company after that ghastly business with Gloria.”

“Let me get just one thing clear: you’re not working at the moment?”

“Not apart from The Unfortunate Lady conferences, no. I’m between films.”

“Just so. Go on, then.”

“Well, the thing is, you see, that there are burglar alarms on the door and windows of the flat; they ring in the porter’s office on the ground floor, and there’s always a man there. The fellow who had the flat before me was a diamond merchant, and it was him had the alarms installed. I always switch them on when I go away from the flat for more than a few hours, because I’ve got one or two pictures—a Cezanne and a Picasso—that’d be quite worth stealing… Anyway, what it all amounts to is that up to the time I went back to the flat—that’s to say, Saturday afternoon, after Maurice’s death—no one could possibly have got at that medicine. And after that, for reasons I needn’t go into in detail, no one could have got at it till this morning.”

“This morning, then: how was it accessible this morning?”

“I told you I’ve been having my meals out, didn’t I? Yes. Well, this morning I got up early and strolled up to a sort of snack-bar place in North Row for breakfast. They do you delicious home-made sausages there, with little crisp bits of raw onion in them… However.

“The point is that I didn’t shut the front door of the flat properly. When I got back I found it was open—not wide open, mind you, but not latched. At first I imagined someone might have got hold of a duplicate key somehow, but then it struck me that if someone had, they’d certainly have been careful to close the door properly when leaving, so as not to suggest that the place had been entered; and besides, I remembered vaguely—the way one does—that the door hadn’t clicked properly when I shut it on the way out.”

“You mentioned duplicate keys. Are there any?”

“Only the one my servant has. And he’s been away on holiday for the past week, and I got his key off him before he went. Here it is, with mine.” Nicholas produced a key-ring, and displayed two elaborate, identical Yale keys. “As you can see, it’s a very special sort of lock—that’s the jewel merchant’s doing again—and I think any other keys besides these two are out of the question. What’s more, I can guarantee that these haven’t been out of my possession for a single moment.”

Humbleby nodded. “Good enough. When did you leave the flat for breakfast and how long were you away?”

“I can remember that. I left at almost exactly seven a.m. and I got back at almost exactly eight.”

“And you looked round, no doubt, to see if anything had been disturbed?”

“I most certainly did. But there was nothing out of place that I could discover. And in any case my policy was not to eat or drink anything that was kept in the flat, so it was just a question of carrying on with that. There was no proof, of course, that anyone had entered the flat at all.”

“Did you ask your porter about that?”

“Yes. But he was shut up in his room—they aren’t expected to hang about the entrance hall all day—and wouldn’t have seen or heard anyone go in or out. So that was no help.”

Humbleby consumed his thimbleful of black coffee, asked for more, and, having received it, lit a cheroot. “And then?”

“Well, after that our poisoner didn’t get another chance till I arrived here.”

“When was that?”

“About five this afternoon.”

“And what sort of a chance did he have then?”

“I unpacked and dozed for a bit on the bed. Then about six I came downstairs—I should think it must have been about an hour later when it suddenly occurred to me that it wasn’t very sensible to leave the medicine lying about in my bedroom for anyone to get at. So I went up and locked it away; and it stayed locked away till I got it out to give to you.”

“Then what it all adds up to,” said Humbleby slowly, “is this: colchicine could have been introduced into the medicine either before your party and Miss Scott’s suicide, or between seven and eight this morning, or between six and seven this evening. Is that right?”

“Perfectly. And presumably number one can be ruled out.”

“I think so, yes.”

“And number two as well? The Mercury didn’t appear till three this afternoon, and I take it the attempt to poison me was a result of the publication of that unfortunate letter.”

Humbleby considered acquainting him with his theory of a literal vendetta, and decided against it; it was not a contingency which he liked to contemplate himself.

“That is probable,” he agreed. “So by far our likeliest time is between six and seven this evening. Now, just what were X’s chances of getting at the medicine then and remaining unseen?”

They had been considerable, he elicited; and subsequent questioning of Eleanor, David, Medesco and the servants confirmed this. The overgrown condition of the estate made an unobtrusive approach to the house perfectly feasible; at any one of a dozen open doors and windows an outsider could have made his entry; and inside, there were innumerable places where he could have concealed himself in an emergency. A very vulnerable place, Humbleby reflected, with the vendetta theory nagging at the back of his mind; the only snag was how, without searching all the bedrooms (a perilous though not impossible course), X could have known where Nicholas was sleeping—for the Cranes had only occupied the house for a few months, and the location of Nicholas’ room could not have been at all widely known, except to the family and domestic staff. However, an enterprising person could have solved that problem without excessive difficulty; and the strength of those who killed for vengeance rather than gain, as well as their weakness, was that commonly they were prepared to run abnormal risks…

It was after eleven when at last Humbleby took his departure. Nicholas walked out with him to his car. The rain was temporarily holding off, and here and there a drowned star winked blearily through a gap in the clouds. The gravel was loud underfoot, and an accumulation of water gurgled and dripped in the gutters. Humbleby was by this time thoroughly exhausted—and so also, he guessed, was Nicholas, for the tic on his check had become more frequent and pronounced, and at each spasm his face screwed up with the pain.

“Well, that’s that,” he said. “And I hope you’re able to make sense of it, because I don’t want to go in fear of sudden death for the rest of my days… By the way, have you any idea how the Mercury got hold of that bloody letter?”

Humbleby told him.

“Why my idiot sister didn’t burn the thing,” he commented when the story was finished, “I simply cannot imagine. But women are like that. They can none of them ever bring themselves to destroy anything.”

Humbleby opened tire car door and climbed in. Through the window he said:

“And you’re quite certain you don’t want police protection? It can easily be arranged.”

“No, I can look after myself, thanks. I’ve got my pistol, I shall sleep with my bedroom door locked, and from now on I’ll do all my eating and drinking at pubs in Aylesbury.”

“Then you’re going to stay on here?”

“For a day or two, till I see how things turn out.”

Humbleby grunted. “Well, be careful. For the Lord’s sake, be careful.”

“Don’t worry,” said Nicholas, laughing. “I’ve no intention of dying yet awhile… Good night.”

Humbleby drove off. Once, just before trees and bushes screened the carriageway finally from the house, he looked back. Beneath the wan, fluctuating bulb outside the pedimented front door Nicholas was standing alone and motionless, his hands thrust hard into the pockets of his obtrusively well-cut dinner jacket, staring blankly after the retreating car…

And that was the last time Humbleby saw him alive.