Sudden death, p.25
Sudden Death, page 25
The second of the two points, however, was more important. Here he had been guilty of a quite definite omission. He had forgotten to find out whether anything could be made of the Frayle clocks. The presumed confirmation of Godfrey’s watch might be only apparent. If there had been even a slight error in the hour of Grinsmead’s death, it might throw a new light on the situation. This was a matter which should be cleared up at once. French accordingly rang up Frayle to know whether if he went out then and there he could see all the inmates.
Gladys replied. She explained that Anne and Edith had that day taken the children to an aunt at Bognor Regis and that they would not be back till dinner time. French said that if convenient he would go out about nine that evening.
He turned back to the case. He must get further light on it. He felt at an utter deadlock, but as he looked back on all the similar situations he had faced in the past, he picked up heart. Again and again he had been up against what had seemed utterly insoluble problems, and invariably—well, perhaps not invariably, but again and again—he had found the solution. Frequently, indeed usually, it had suddenly leaped into his mind, practically complete. What had then most puzzled him was how he had even for a moment failed to see it.
He returned to the question of the locked room. On his desk he made a model of it—rows of matches for the walls, squares of matches for the tables and chairs. He looked up books containing notes of all the ways in which locks could be tampered with. He put that phase of the problem aside. He concentrated on motives; who could have had a motive for doing what? He made lists of all the people in the case and of all the possible motives for the crimes and tried to connect the two. He paced the room. He drank strong coffee …
Then suddenly a fresh idea flashed into his mind. A quite ordinary idea it seemed at first. But as he thought over it other facts occurred to him, and a suddenly rising excitement took possession of him. What was this that he had thought of? What was it? It couldn’t be, no, it couldn’t be—the solution?
He sprang to his feet and began once again to pace the room. He felt actually breathless. Was it possible that at last he had reached the truth of all these terrible happenings? That he now understood the mystery of the locked room? That he now knew what Holt-Lancing had done? For the matter of that, that he now knew what everyone in the entire case had done? That he could guess all about the message sent to Irene? That he had all the evidence he wanted about the death of Sybil? Was it possible that he had all this?
The more he thought about it the greater grew his elation. Yes, he had it! This new theory was consistent. It accounted for all the facts. There could be no doubt that it was the truth. And what was better still, absolute proof should be easy to obtain!
With difficulty French controlled his excitement. This would be something more than a coup for him! It would, he thought, be the best thing he had ever done. In other cases, perhaps as difficult, he had no doubt reached a solution, but here he had done better. He had reached it while the other experts on the case had failed. Godfrey had known every bit as much as he had, and Godfrey had not solved it. Surely now in the face of this, that chief inspectorship, when it was vacant … Certainly French felt he deserved it more than anyone else he knew. And Markham was getting on in years … Besides, since that business in the Channel he felt that Sir Mortimer Ellison thought a good deal more of him …
French pulled himself up with a jerk. This would never do. Too much elation usually meant that something vital had been overlooked. Even if he had got his solution, he hadn’t got his proof. He was not out of the wood. Let him go on with the work that was still to be done.
Controlling his eagerness, he sat down once more and made a detailed statement of his views. Then he went in and put the result before Superintendent Godfrey.
PART V
As Anne Day Saw It
21
Nemesis
That same day on which French got his great idea was the day before the break-up at Frayle. Mrs Meakin had already left, and next morning the others were to follow. Mrs Grinsmead was returning to her home near Frome. Edith and Anne had that day taken the children to an aunt at Bognor Regis, and tomorrow Edith would go to see about a possible situation at Reading, while Anne would return to her old boarding-house in London. Gladys was leaving for some unknown destination. The house had not been sold, but a ‘party’ was in negotiation about it and the agent believed he would come to terms.
Anne and Edith were having their last conversation in Anne’s room after the supper which had lately taken the place of dinner. As was inevitable, their talk was tinged with sadness. A period, eventful in both their lives, was coming to an end; a period, had it not been for these awful tragedies, which would perhaps have been the happiest they had ever enjoyed; a period, because of the tragedies, which had brought them closer to one another than they would have imagined possible.
Anne had nothing in view and Edith was doubtful about the suitability of the Reading job. They had for some time been searching the advertisement columns of the daily papers, and had indeed replied to many of the notices they saw, but up to the present without satisfactory result.
The talk had touched on a variety of subjects, principally the prospects of getting suitable work, but now it turned back to the tragedies, and particularly to that last terrible evening when, as they thought, Grinsmead had shot himself.
‘You know,’ Anne was saying as she sat waiting for the kettle to boil for their evening cup of tea, ‘it’s strange beyond belief, the whole affair. If ever there was a clear case of suicide, you might say this was it. And yet the police keep on endlessly inquiring and inquiring and inquiring. What on earth can be in their mind?’
‘Heaven knows. I suppose they must earn their keep. If there’s nothing for them to do, they must invent something.’
‘French did not give me that idea,’ Anne returned. ‘He struck me as a man with a definite aim. No fool, he seemed, and quite straight and honest too.’
Edith made a gesture of impatience. ‘You make me tired, Anne. If the devil were to come to you, you’d find him an honourable gentleman. Why on earth you bother to give everybody an imaginery halo beats me.’
‘Don’t be an ass, Edith. I do nothing of the kind. French gave me the idea of working on some quite definite idea, and why shouldn’t I say so? There was nothing vague about him that I could see.’
‘Just his job. It’s his business to give people that impression.’
‘Nonsense, Edith. It’s more than that. You don’t suppose, do you,’ her voice sank, ‘that they could possibly think it was murder?’
Edith moved irritably. ‘Murder?’ she repeated crossly. ‘How could it have been? What nonsense you do talk, Anne.’
‘You don’t know that it’s nonsense, Edith. We would have said that it was nonsense to suspect murder in Sybil’s case, and look how it turned out.’
‘Sybil’s case! But Sybil’s case was quite different.’ Edith jerked herself about impatiently. ‘If you can’t talk sense, do for goodness’ sake talk about something else. I’m fed up. I’m sick to tears of the whole horrid business. What is it to us whether it was suicide or murder? We’ll be quit of it tomorrow and I for one never want to hear the subject mentioned again as long as I live.’
Edith’s nerves had grown more and more on edge during these last few days. She must, Anne thought, have more real feeling in her than she pretended. Anne was deeply distressed for her two employers, however their lives had ended, but in spite of her hard manner, Edith seemed more distressed still. Anne liked her for it. Then she realised once more, as she had frequently realised in the past, that what Edith was upset about was herself. It was this losing of her job and the search for a new one that was weighing on her mind. Well, no wonder! As Anne thought of her own case, she shivered.
But for once Edith returned to the subject. ‘As you know so much about French,’ she said unpleasantly, ‘why do you think he suspects murder?’
Anne hesitated. ‘I don’t think so,’ she answered, ‘at least not definitely. All I meant to say was that his inquiries seemed directed to some definite object. If he was satisfied that it was suicide, why should he go on making these inquiries?’
‘What I say: to make work for himself. Besides, his inquiries were natural enough.’
‘Oh, no, Edith, they weren’t. Take that last day he was here. You were in Ashbridge, but I told you about it. He spent, I suppose, three hours working at the study doors. I noticed him at the French window when I was bringing in the tennis things from the pavilion, and several times later I saw him at the door from the hall to the study.’
‘You never told me anything of the kind.’
‘I thought I had. But what could he have been doing?’
‘How do I know? I’m not in his confidence. What do you think yourself, if you’re so well up in it?’
‘Ask me something easier, Edith. But I’ll tell you what I thought: that he was trying to find out whether anyone could have got out through either of the doors.’
‘Do you mean that somebody walked through a locked door?’ Edith asked with elaborate politeness, ‘or that he locked it behind him, leaving the key on the other side?’
Anne leaned forward, picked up the now boiling kettle, filled the teapot, and turned back to Edith. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said in a lower tone, ‘I half imagined French thought I had been in the room. Got out through the door somehow, instead of coming downstairs as I said.’
Edith seemed startled. ‘You never did, Anne?’ she said scornfully. ‘’Pon my soul, you are the limit. So he thinks you’re a murderess, does he? I declare you’ve got an obsession about murder. It makes you a nice cheery companion, doesn’t it?’
Anne felt annoyed. ‘What on earth’s the matter with you, Edith?’ she retorted. ‘I can’t say a thing that’s right. What is it?’
Edith snorted contemptuously. ‘You fool, there’s nothing wrong. I’m about fed up; that’s all. And when you began about a fresh murder on the top of all that’s happened, it just seemed to put the lid on everything.’
‘But, Edith, you’re quite wrong. I never thought of murder till lately, till all these inquiries started. And what matter about it anyway?’
But Edith seemed unable to control herself. ‘That’s a lie,’ she retorted. ‘You’re trying to deceive me. Wasn’t murder the very first thing you thought of when you heard the shot? “Oh God, not another murder!” Wasn’t that what you cried when you found the study door locked? You had murder in your mind from the very start. It had nothing to do with French’s questions.’
Anne was surprised at her vehemence. ‘Do be reasonable,’ she answered. ‘You know you’re talking nonsense. I may have thought that before I knew the circumstances, but directly I learned what had really happened I knew that my first idea was wrong. Besides, as I say, what does it matter? Don’t let’s quarrel on our last evening.’
‘I’m sure I don’t want to quarrel,’ Edith returned sulkily. She paused, then went on: ‘I tell you, Anne, my nerves have all gone to shreds. You mustn’t mind what I said. I didn’t really mean it, of course. If you—’
She broke off. Anne was not paying attention. Anne was staring at her in a puzzled way.
Anne indeed was a good deal puzzled. That remark that she had made; it was really an involuntary prayer: ‘Oh God, not another murder!’ When had she made it?
She recalled to her mind the events of that tragic evening. It required no effort; every item was burnt too deeply into her memory possibly to forget it. She had heard the shot and run down. She had reached the study, followed by Gladys. They had tried the door and called on Grinsmead to open. She had sent Gladys for Hersey. Left alone, she had for a moment felt sick, almost faint. It was then that she had made this involuntary cry; while Gladys was away.
Resolutely she went over the details in her mind. Yes, she had used those words when she was alone. And she had not repeated them to anyone.
How did Edith know?
Anne shook herself. What had gone wrong with her? Edith was right. She was getting obsessions.
‘How did you know what I said?’ she asked curiously.
Edith moved uneasily. She did not immediately reply, then in a somewhat strained voice she answered: ‘You silly old ass, Anne. You told me yourself; that evening after it happened. Don’t you remember?’
Anne was still slightly puzzled. ‘I had forgotten,’ she murmured.
She sat thinking. She could recall that conversation in the evening. Yes, she remembered it in every detail. And she had not repeated her exclamation! She was certain, positive beyond any possibility of doubt.
Then how had Edith known?
Edith, of course, couldn’t have heard it. She was in her bath at the time. She didn’t come down for another four or five minutes. How had she known?
Anne’s surroundings slowly faded away as her mind became filled with the problem. She lost consciousness of her pleasant room with its cheery fire, of the mellow light of her shaded lamp, of the bright wallpaper, of her half-packed portmanteau. She lost consciousness even of Edith, sitting there at the other side of the fire, as she had sat on so many previous occasions. Never had Anne been so absorbed in her thoughts.
Where in the house was her remark audible? In the hall, yes. On the lower flight of stairs, yes. But both these places had been within her view at the time, and she had seen that neither Edith not anyone else was there.
With a feeling of irrational thankfulness Anne realised that she had not been overheard. Somehow, at some time, she must have repeated the words …
Then like a physical shock another idea leaped into her mind. She was wrong about the impossibility of overhearing her words. There was another place at which that remark would have been audible. Inside the study door!
With a numbing horror creeping over her, Anne continued her reconstruction of the scene. Gladys had returned with Hersey. The door had been burst open. It had swung widely back. They had run in. For a moment they had stood in a line, looking down on Grinsmead. And then Edith arrived. Anne remembered now that she had neither heard nor seen her come. On the study carpet she would not have expected to hear Edith’s mules, but what about the hall tiles?
Anne realised that in her absorption she might well have failed to hear sounds in the hall. And yet … She could not rid her mind of the dreadful question, Was Edith behind the door when it was burst open?
No, no, no, it couldn’t be! She shook herself. And then she looked across at Edith and suddenly, in a ghastly flash of enlightenment, she knew. More than that, she saw that Edith realised that she knew.
Anne could have screamed from sheer horror as she gazed, as if hypnotised, at Edith’s expression. There sat, not the quiet, rather hard, and more than rather self-centred Edith Cheame, but a fiend, a devil in human form. For moments which seemed like an eternity they sat facing each other, while Anne felt that she was looking down into a suddenly uncovered abyss of human evil, more appalling than she could have imagined. Then Edith’s eyes dropped. She swung round and flung herself face downwards into the back of her chair. Presently she began to sob, terrible slow sobs, as if at each her heart would be torn out.
Anne felt frozen. She could not move. Such horror as she had never conceived possible gripped her, both mind and body.
Presently Edith began to speak.
‘Oh,’ she cried in a desperate, strangled voice, ‘it’s come! It’s come! I knew it must come sooner or later. And I’m almost glad! I was going mad, Anne. I had no idea what it would be like. I don’t want to live. I couldn’t live with this on my mind. It’s a relief. It’s actually a relief.’
Anne did not reply. She couldn’t. Edith went on.
‘Of course you won’t speak to me now, Anne, but you must let me speak to you. You must let me tell you. Then you can ring up French and I’ll make a formal confession. I’ll give them no more trouble. Let me tell you, Anne. You must! You must!’ She turned and gazed imploringly at Anne.
As Anne stared at the wretched woman’s twisted, anguished face, she felt a sudden pang of pity. This unhappy Edith had sinned, terribly: but she was going to pay, terribly also. She forced herself to speak.
‘What do you want to say, Edith?’
But Edith seemed unable to begin. Once again the slow sobs racked her. Then suddenly confession poured from her.
‘Yes,’ she almost panted, ‘it’s true. You’ve guessed. I killed him. And I killed her. Oh, Anne, be thankful for one thing; that you’ve never loved! There’s no hell like that. I loved Grinsmead more than my life. I thought he was fond of me. I was sure he was fond of me. But Sybil was in the way. Sybil, who hated me. I didn’t hesitate. I killed her. Yes, Anne, you never guessed. It was I who did that. I killed her, thinking it would be put down to suicide. And I wasn’t sorry. I wanted her dead! … And then afterwards—when I let him know how I felt—he—he spurned me. Spurned me with loathing as if I’d been a leper. Then I guessed about that—Irene Holt-Lancing. My love was turned into bitter hate. I felt I couldn’t breathe the same air with him. I couldn’t live if he lived. I told French I’d seen him in the corridor. I wanted him to die.’
She paused, threw her hands despairingly in the air, then once more the flood of words poured uncontrollably out.
‘Then he guessed. Grinsmead guessed—everything. He called me down to ask me questions. That was when I told you he was thinking of sending the children to Bournemouth. I told him I was innocent, but that I could prove who was guilty if he would let me get the evidence. I had thought it all out beforehand. I came back to you and made up that fake about the bath. Presently I went down again. I shot him. Oh, Anne, I did it, I did it! Then I locked the door. I stood behind it till you burst it open. I knew you would be looking at the body and wouldn’t see where I came from. And now it’s all no good! I’ve lost! Oh, God, I’ve lost!’
